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MRS. E. D. WALLACE, 

AUTHOR OF “a WOMAN’S EXPERIENCES IN EUROPE," "ENGLAND'S 
LAST QUEEN,” ETC. 


“ War not with necessity.’' 

^ Seconh lEhftfon. 



PHILADELPHIA; 

CLAXTON, REMSEN & HAFFELFINGER. 

1872. 

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Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by 
* E. D. WALLACE, 

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 






J. FAOAN A SON, 
STEREOTYPERS, PHILAD’A. 





-Xf'X- 


Whatever merit this volume may be found to 
contain^ is ascribed to the Memory of my husband^ 
Ernest C. Wallace ; a7td in association^ to the 
Original Press Club of Philadelphia^ many of whose 
names have been recorded in the Book of Life. 


The Authoress. 


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CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

Chapter I. — Immergrun 13 

II. — Unexpected Guests 26 

III. — Necessity 34 

IV. — A Dream 40' 

V. — Father Beaumont 51' 

VI. — Speranza 59 

VII. — “Asleep” 69 

VIII. — Mademoiselle Beaumont .... 76 

IX. — The Medal 87 

X. — An Unfortunate Remark. ... 96 

XI. — Amelia 105 

XII. — Discoveries no 

XIII. — San Angelo . . . . . . .119 

XIV. — Retrospection 13 1 

XV. — Surprises 139 

XVI. — “ Love’s Young Dream ” . . . . 155 

XVII. — A Rendezvous 169 

XVIII. — Parting 179 

XIX. — A Happy Interval 184 

XX. — Incognito 190 

xi 


Xll 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter XXL — Arrested 

XXII. — Cave of St. Anthony . 
XXIII.' — A Midnight Excursion . 
XXIV. — The Bowlder 

XXV. — Angel of Death 

XXVI. — Dawning Cheerfulness 
XXVII. — Deception 

XXVIII. — Out of the Body 
XXIX. — Character 
XXX. — Suspense 
XXXI. — Retribution 
XXXII. — Immergrun . 


PACK 

207 

212 

226 

233 

242 

252 

269 

281 

292 

3 ” 

319 

325 

333 


ADIEU . 


STRIFE. 


CHAPTER I. 

IMMERGRUN. 

M y father’s castle, Immergriin, was situated on 
the highest elevation of table-land running 
along the right bank of the river in the valley of 
the Elbe, a short distance below Dresden. 

My great-great-grandfathers might be forgiven for 
their pride in this grand estate, whose possession 
with them dated several hundred years back. In 
their day, vine-hills, minsters, old towers, and wind- 
mills allured quixotic travellers to the neighbor- 
hood of Immergriin; but their descendants beheld 
with great satisfaction the gradual improvements in 
the valley, till villas, groves, and cultivated gardens 
nestled at their very feet, and they surveyed with 
the stately pride of the oldest family ” these mod- 
ern improvements from their ancient castle. 

A leafy avenue led by a rather circuitous and steep 
drive to the ” visitors’ grove,” as it was called. There 
every traveller was sure to find his way. It was 
pleasant to see parties of excursionists resting under 

2 13 


14 


STRIFE. 


the old trees, whose abundant foliage sheltered them 
from the noon glare, and to hear them eulogize the 
taste and hospitality of the De Stalbergs, who af- 
forded them the charming view of the valley, and a 
bird’s-eye view of the Saxon capital, whose hum and 
bustle reached their ears with a softened, alluring 
sound. The grove was not far from the castle, and 
I fancy the enthusiastic praises that sometimes fell 
on listening ears were shaped for that purpose. It 
was a harmless flattery, intended to reciprocate some 
of the genial influence the proprietors of Immer- 
grlin had exercised, out of pure hospitality to chance 
pleasure-seekers. 

But, alas! dear reader, I have no such entertain- 
ment for you. 

Snow covers the ivy that grows over the old cas- 
tle-walls, the trees are mantled with snow, and the 
whole plain in the valley of the Elbe is one great 
blank. The steep hillsides on the opposite banks 
of the river, cut into narrow terraces for the vine- 
growers, present a dreary aspect. 

Rows of blackened sticks standing upright, and 
the gnarled vines shrinking from their stiff support, 
remind one of some humans, as we see them among 
the peasantry at the time of the vintage, when they 
have abused the gifts of Dame Nature, and converted 
the luscious fruit of these same vines into stupefying 
draughts. 

While we are regarding this wintry prospect from 
a hall window, a friend, who was not expected this 
morning, has come cautiously behind me, to form 


STRIFE. 


15 


his own opinions of my sanitary condition, as my 
father is out in his sleigh, notwithstanding the heavy 
fall of snow continues unabated. 

‘‘ Well, little one, you have surveyed the prospect 
thoroughly, I think. What is your conclusion?” 
our friend asks. 

“Not very flattering to my ancestors, doctor,” I 
reply, as quietly. 

“ Poor ghosts ! of what offence are they guilty 
toward your little ladyship? ” 

“ Why sh-ould they call this place Immergriin ? 
At this moment, not a twig or blade of green is to 
be seen, either on the castle walls, the trees, or any- 
where in the landscape. Evergree7t, indeed : ough ! 
I do not wonder my father dislikes the place ; it is 
cold and dreary enough.” 

“ Not wishing to cross your humor, mademoiselle, 
and entertaining due respect for the opinion of the 
Baron de Stalberg, I should be happy to learn more 
of this matter ; so come into the library. I have a 
word to say to you.” 

Dr. Leon is not to be crossed, dear reader, any 
more than myself ; so we will go with him to the 
most inviting corner of the castle, as he requests. 

The family physician and the pastor of the De 
Stalbergs were always the two cherished friends, 
selected with a regard to the same qualifications in 
either — piety and intelligence: one to administer 
to our weakness ; the other to restrain our self-suffi- 
ciency — both acknowledging their dependence on 
a greater Physician. 


i6 


STRIFE. 


It was scarcely fair to lay on my father’s shoul- 
ders all the weight of gloom that had oppressed my 
spirits and prompted my answer to Dr. L^on. 

My eyes had rested a long time on that shroud 
of snow that covered the graves of my mother and 
our good bishop, in the family cemetery at Immer- 
grlin. 

There was only one window in the castle that 
looked into the cemetery. A church, built by my 
grandfather, and endowed with a pastorship, screened 
it from all the others. 

Our bishop had fallen asleep ” only three months 
previous to the opening of my story, and, though 
but a girl of fourteen then, my incomplete character 
was already tinged with sombre shades, and I had 
my own hours of unuttered grief and lonely musing 
over that little cemetery. 

My sister and brother shared with me the instruc- 
tions of my father, who endeavored to inspire a 
healthier tone of mind than I had yet attained ; for 
though only a listener in the presence of the august 
faculty in the learned school of preceptors, my mind, 
very sensitive and a little wilful^ took occasional ram- 
bles over the fields of retrospection, and, gathering 
the withered flowers of hopes unrealized and prom- 
ises unfulfilled, laid them away in secret nooks, to 
be cherished for what they had been. 

Dr. Leon suspected' the existence of this “cranny,” 
and whenever he could get the faintest clew to the 
occasion of my retirement there, he poured in such 
a flood of sunshine on my morbid fancies that they 


STRIFE. 


17 

appeared like rubbish,” as he called them, and I 
deserted them for the more cheerful views of real 
life he presented. 

Come into the library with us, dear reader. It is 
very cheerful there. A large fireplace is all ablaze 
with ruddy flames. On the square blue tiles of the 
chimney-place, under the high old-fashioned mantel- 
piece, are pictures painted in the Meissen porcelain 
manufactory, representing Immergrlin under the 
benign influences of spring, summer, and autumn. 
There is one tile devoted to a winter view, but it is 
too flattering, and there is only one month in the 
year when it can be tolerated — the month of July. 

My father is represented on one tile, as he ap- 
peared in his fifth year. He wears pink-striped pan- 
taloons, with a waist not wider than two inches, 
fitting close up under his arms, little straps across 
the top of his fat arms, and a wealth of golden hair, 
the only covering of his fair neck and shoulders. 
He is looking very intently at something not included 
in the picture, and his dog, a woolly dog, seems to 
be wondering what his master is looking at, judging 
by the upturned head. The artist displayed a con- 
sciousness that attitude, and not expression, was his 
forte. 

My sister Leoni, and her twin - brother Leon, 
occupy the oval centres of two contiguous tiles ; I, 
the youngest, the next tile to my mother’s. My 
mother has no apparent motive for being in the 
group, and I appear to have been at that juvenile age 
when one stays where one is put. I was put on the 
2* B 


i8 


STRIFE. 


tile in a sitting posture, like the figures on a Chinese 
fan, sans floor or furniture. By far the best delinea- 
tions on the tiles are a series of heraldic designs, 
including the armorial ensigns of all the branches 
of the De Stalbergs. 

They seem to have been a hopeful race, for every 
device insinuates a claim in some form to that golden 
attribute whose progeny, according to Sophocles, is 
imperishable fame. 

Spes — Esperance — Spera7tza ! The despair with 
which I opened this chapter betokens no especial 
transmission of this tri - formed motto as a talis- 
man to one inheritor of the hopeful inscription. But 
I must not berate my ancestors, whose intentions 
were, no doubt, better than those embodiments of 
good purposes that are said to form a mosaic pave- 
ment for the lower world. I may confess, how- 
ever, that these intentions last referred to are more 
obscure to my mind than some of the philosophy 
of the old fatalists, whose yearnings for the Truth, 
with their imperfect light, had more of the spirit 
of true religion than many of the revelations of our 
day, when men are more covetous of advantage, and 
whose spiritual excellence attains to .no greater ele- 
vation than the realization of their great expecta- 
tions. 

The library is a dreamy old place, and tempts one 
to forget one’s company manners. Make yourself 
at home, dear reader. The De Stalbergs accord that 
privilege to their guests as the , highest compliment 
to their intelligence and good sense. 


STRIFE. 


19 


The curiosities in that cabinet with glass doors 
were all placed there by visitors to the ancestral 
and present occupants of the castle — from the 
Egyptian infant mummified three thousand years 
ago, to that arrow-head from the American hunting- 
grounds. So each article, besides its local worth, 
has a value by its association with some dear friend 
or honored guest. 

The bronzes are all Pompeian copies ; the marbles, 
Roman ; and the stone and silver, Egyptian models. 
The engravings on the walls are German reform- 
ers, writers, kings, and electors, considered excellent 
portraits, and valuable to students of physiognomy. 
I became a physiognomist at a very early age, and 
Dr. Leon declared “ those old pictures had more to 
do with my education in that branch of learning 
than Addison ” — though a handsome edition of his 
works occupies a conspicuous corner in the lower 
row of English authors ; and that “ More would 
have considered me a fair illustration of prosopolep- 
sia, or the taking a prejudice against a person for 
his looks, which he reckoned among the smaller 
vices in morality.” ^ 

Dr. Ldon often amused himself at my expense, but 
I was always compensated for the diversion my 
odd notions and ways ” afforded him, by a line and 
a precept proportioned to my capacity, and so gen- 
tly offered, as a remedy for erring opinions, or sug- 
gestion for additional knowledge, that his raillery 
was taken for just what he intended — good-hu- 
mored pleasantry, with never a suspicion of malice 


20 


STRIFE. 


in it. For a young lady of my wilful tendencies to 
retain the good opinion of a man so opposed to un- 
reason as Dr. Leon, the reader must suspect, and I 
admit, claims on his generous consideration, in- 
dependent of any individual qualifications. 

Dr. Leon was, as his name indicates, of Spanish 
origin — one of a large family of sons whose sole 
inheritance was the nobility of blood that had run 
in the veins of maternal and paternal ancestry, with- 
out the wherewithal to furnish nutriment, and with- 
out which the best blood becomes thin, and cries out 
from every member of the ignoble body, and pun- 
ishes neglect of its cries with the afflictions of Job, 
even from the crown of the head to the sole of the 
fpot. Alimentiveness did not predominate over 
other propensities in Dr. Leon’s organization ; but 
the faculty of self-esteem was largely developed, and 
his spirit of independence, dignity, and self-govern- 
ment prevented his rusting in indigent idleness while 
there was a wide field for the occupation of his ener- 
gies, which are the truest tests of real nobility. A 
relative on the maternal side, whose guardianship 
concluded with the distribution of the pittance left 
by their father to eight sons, gave them, as a bonus, 
an excellent maxim, modified by a man noted for 
practising what he preached, into this terse sentence : 
“Eagles fly alone, and they are but sheep which 
always herd together.” 

Shrewd enough to take a good hint without quar- 
relling with its author or caring for his motive, the 


STRIFE. 


21 


youngest of the eight brothers, at the age of sixteen, 
began the study of medicine, passed the ordeal of 
an examination before the faculty of the University 
at Berlin, “ walked the hospitals,” received the high- 
est commendations of his professors, and so fastened 
upon their approbation by his display of persever- 
ance, tenacity of purpose, and capacity of endurance, 
united with qualities peculiarly adapted to the pro- 
fession he had chosen — tenderness, charity, and 
benevolence — that his fame reached the Prussian 
Court, and, at the age of twenty-six. Dr. Leon was 
appointed the court physician to Frederick William 
III. A prince who “ placed a Bible in the hands of 
every family in his realm,” could not fail to recog- 
nize the merits of a man who attributed his success 
in life to his unalterable faith in the maxims of that 
guide. For the precept of Sir Philip Sidney was but 
a dilution of a proverb, and yet stimulating enough 
to induce one young eagle to leave the aerie deserted 
by the parent birds, and, finding his own sustenance, 
prove his right to a noble name. 

Such was my father’s friend. Dr. Leon. His estate 
adjoined Immergrlin, and his time was divided be- 
tween his own and my father’s castle. His family 
consisted of a wife and one daughter. Madame 
was a bright, bonny lady; and Ethel, a fair-haired, 
beautiful girl of fourteen — just my age — was the 
crowning joy of the good doctor’s life. Castle 
Mkhren was the gift of the king to Dr. Leon. My 
father, the Baron de Stalberg, was attached to the 
court when Dr. Leon became the king’s physician. 


22 


STRIFE. 


Immediately discerning the noble qualities of the 
new favorite, my father laid aside his usual reserve, 
and made friendly advances that led to mutual con- 
fidence, and were highly advantageous to Dr. Leon. 
The social character and rather retiring disposition 
of the king, inclined him to consult my father pri- 
vately on many occasions when a more general 
council might have been held. Dr. Leon’s opinions 
were often deferred to on certain questions where 
his economy induced wise adjustment ; and the king 
admitted him to these private conferences on my 
father’s ascribing to the doctor the credit of what- 
ever happy issues were due to his advice. After 
eight years of uninterrupted intercourse with each 
other and their king on this enviable footing, my 
father was obliged to retire from the court to devote 
the most tender care to my mother’s health, which 
threatened rapid decline. Dr. Leon having chosen 
for a wife a lady who, having no title to court favors, 
would not even share the privileges of her husband 
at court, gained a reluctant consent to his retirement, 
from the king, at the same time ; and “ by way of 
gratifying and rewarding both the friends,” the king 
gave the estate adjoining my father’s to the doctor, 
and furnished the castle “ as a bridal gift to the new 
wife.” 

Several years were passed in travel through the 
East, and my mother’s health improved wonderfully; 
but suddenly she insisted on returning home, and 
declared her conviction that she would only live 
long enough to see Immergrlin once more.” 


STRIFE. 


23 


The doctor and Madame joined their entreaties to 
my father’s in vain to dissuade her, and he finally 
yielded to my mother’s longing desire to return to 
her home. 

One week after she arrived at Immergrlin, my mo- 
ther suffered great mental anguish, and then all was 
blank for several months. A day came when she 
again recognized her home, husband, and children ; 
but it was only the flickering of a light that had 
seemed almost gone, to cheer the watchers for a 
moment — then expire. 

Death is not the greatest sorrow. My mother’s 
grave was not so sad a place as her prison-house, 
and my father’s grief was not so terrible to me as the 
despair I remembered only too well. 

But I invited you to hear what the doctor had to 
say in the old library. And there he is, dear reader, 
seated on the very fauteuil I notice he always takes 
when he anticipates some manoeuvring on my part. 
He thinks I cannot detect the anxiety brooding in 
that dear, benevolent face. I shall just let him en- 
tertain his opinion, and take a seat on the old tiger- 
rug before the fire — a winter luxury especially for 
Minnette, the little one.” 

I will confess the snow-air has made me a little 
nervous, and a certain dream — I believe in dreams 
— haunts me; so if Dr. Leon suspects any con- 
cealment of a certain little ‘‘ brownie,” who is my 
favorite guest in the cranny ^ but uneasy at the doc- 
tor’s menacing approach, I must avoid his challenge, 
or be defeated. 


24 


STRIFE. 


You understand, then, why I make the firelight 
my excuse, and turn my eyes partly away from his 
inquisitive glances. > 

Minnette,” — there is a touch of sadness in his 
voice, but I must not permit it to affect me — “you 
said your father disliked Immergriin?” 

“Yes, doctor; only this morning, when the snow 
began to fall, he declared the castle was cheerless, 
the weather execrable, and he had but one tie at 
Immergriin.” 

“ I suspected as much,” he answered, as if talking 
to himself The doctor looked a shade paler, or 
perhaps it was the sickly hue of the phantasm that 
threw its white mystery over everything I looked 
at. There are three occasions when this influence 
is very perceptible to me: the full moon, shedding 
its intense white light from an unclouded sky full 
on the disk of earth that I inhabit ; when at sea, the 
restless waters are churned into a creamy foam, and 
an impenetrable shroud of mist gathers around the 
shivering vessel, shutting from my view the sky, the 
only familiar sight in the vast solitude of mid-ocean ; 
and when all the landscape is covered — as I saw it 
from the window of the library — with its symbolic 
pall of pure snow, nature’s mute acknowledgment 
that so God can blot out His inevitable curse with 
heaven’s new whiteness. 

These phenomenal occurrences repeat their un- 
natural effect on me as often as they repeat them- 
selves ; and I am thrilled with the same conscious- 
ness always, of a strange sympathy with that white 


STRIFE. 25 

mystery, that impalpable something, that eludes crit- 
icism. 

If you have no prepossession for these flimsy 
fancies,” dear reader, you may find a more palpable 
reason for Dr. Ldon’s pallor than the reflex of my 
“white ideal,” in his apprehensions of evil, in a 
physical sense, that threatened his dearest friend, 
my father. 

3 


CHAPTER 11. 


UNEXPECTED GUESTS. 

H ave any visitors been here in my absence, or ; 
have you been away from the castle ? ” j 

“No visitors have been here; but we have been 
away’ from the castle,” I responded as if I were 
repeating the translation of a sentence in an exer- 
cise-book. 

The doctor smiled, as if even this faint attempt at 
gayety gave him some encouragement, and I im- 
proved my opportunity to seize the vantage-ground, 
and perhaps evade the cross-questioning regarding 
myself that I felt was coming. 

“ We went to Dresden on Monday,” I continued, 
with my liveliest tones, “ and attended the opera in ^ 
the evening — Der Freischutz.” 

“ Very good,” responded the doctor cheerily, “ the 
most wholesome hobgoblin dose I could prescribe. 
The very best satire on transcendentalism that could 
be conveyed to a rational mind.” 

“ But the music, doctor ? ” 

“ Capital, when you shut your eyes.” 

“ On Tuesday we returned home, and Madame 
and Ethel dined with us.” 


26 


STRIFE. 27 

**And they are off the company list at Immer- 
grun ? ” 

“ I beg Madame’s pardon, and — ” 

“ Granted by proxy ; and more readily, as neither 
one was included in my inquiry regarding visitors to 
the castle. And as I do not propose to weary you 
with my catechism, I have a leading question that 
will bring us nearer the purpose. Has the baron, 
your father, had any symptoms of nervousness or 
illness of any sort ? ” 

“ No, doctor, I have not heard him complain of 
any — oh, yes ! I forgot. At dinner on Wednes- 
day, just after Antonio removed the soup, which 
my father declared was insipid — though we all dis- 
agreed with him — he suddenly dropped his hands 
on his knees, and exclaimed, ‘ Oh ! that dreadful 
feeling — my hands and arms are like lead ! ’ Then 
he grew very pale; but Leon gave him a glass of 
water, and he took it in his own hand, and seemed 
well again the moment after he had swallowed the 
water.” 

It was a rather sudden attack — ” 

“ I scarcely think you would have pronounced it 
an attack, doctor; but a mere — what you call a 
symptom — ” 

‘‘An adjunct; yes: there was no faintness, diffi- 
culty of respiration, articulation, or complaint of 
palpitation in the throat ? ” 

“ Only that momentary paralysis of the arms,” I 
replied, confidently. “And there was no exciting 
cause; apparently; for but two letters came with the 


28 


STRIFE. 


mail, and they w^re both friendly invitations from 
the Baron von Seibert at Prague and the Cardinal 
Darree at Rome.” 

“ Well, run over the six days remaining, and tell 
me if anything occurred to excite or even interest 
your father more than usual.” 

I was fairly caught now, on a point I had quite 
forgotten in my exclusive entertainment of “ the 
brownie.” 

Madame had purposely failed to rentind the doc- 
tor that Leon and Leoni’s birthday fete was at hand, 
when he was invited by the conference and urged by 
my father to superintend the purchase of furniture 
and upholstery for the new parsonage; and we tried 
to intercept everything calculated to remind my fa- 
ther of the date. But we were ourselves deceived 
by his calm preparation for it. 

Madame had sent the presents which she knew 
the doctor would approve, in his name, and wishing 
to avoid anything that might mar the pleasure of 
my brother and sister in receiving their gifts, she per- 
mitted them to suppose they were selected before 
the doctor’s departure, and promised herself a little 
amusement at the doctor’s expense, when he received 
the thanks that were due to her own providing for 
his forgetfulness. How should I avoid betraying 
Madame’s secret? I was saved all trouble on this 
score by the opening of the library door, and the 
appearance of the twin brother and sister in the 
room. 

Delighted with the doctor’s presence, so unex- 
pected to therti, they each seized a hand, and kissed 


STRIFE. 

0 


29 


him on both cheeks, Leon saying: thousand 

thanks for the beautiful presents you sent for our 
fete, dear doctor.” 

There was a dilemma ! 

Ringing for Nannine, Leoni ordered the presents 
to be brought in, and remarked, as the case of their 
more costly gifts was laid on the table : “ Doctor, 
you will have an opportunity now to prove your 
skill in pointing out characteristics in gifts.” 

Yes, doctor,” added Leon, ‘"and you, no doubt, 
can guess the giver’s name as readily : so there they 
are, at your service.” 

It was too absurd. I could not help laughing at 
the doctor’s dismay. In that grand, simple nature 
there lurked none of ” the civilized hypocrisies and 
bland deceits” of society, and at that moment the 
uneasy little gentleman was a fit subject for a comic 
sculptor. His well-braced shoulders had borne with- 
out bending under life’s burdens; his compact little 
head, well posed, had no nonsensical developments 
under the comfortable layer of iron-gray hair that 
was brushed away from his expansive forehead. His 
beard and eyebrows matched the hair perfectly; and 
it was inexpressibly amusing to me to see those eye- 
brows rise almost to a vertical line with the wrinkles 
in his forehead, as he drew down his beard with the 
hand that hesitated to touch the traps for his con- 
science that my brother had so innocently laid. 

I was conscious of his giving an appealing glance 
at my face, that called for interference, and I could, 
by simply pointing out his own presents, have re- 
3 * 


30 


STRIFE. 

% 

lieved all embarrassment ; but it was a rare treat to 
see a lion-hearted man, who had no fear of anything 
in nature, coping with that imp of temptation, a fib ! 

I knew who would win, so my amusement was 
harmless. 

In his desperation, the doctor gave one more look 
at me, and caught the expression of mirth I could 
no longer restrain. 

^‘Minnette, you rogue,” he exclaimed, ^'you are 
mischievously enjoying my perplexity ! Come here 
this moment, and, by way of atonement, offer my 
defence for total ignorance of the source of every 
one of these baubles ! ” 

As fate would have it, Madame Leon and Ethel 
burst in upon us just at the moment of confession; : 
and my sister’s demure account of “the doctor’s in- ; 
explicable gravity when she ordered the presents to ■ 
be brought,” threw Madame into convulsions of j 
laughter that even the doctor could not resist. | 

When the presents were duly admired, the doc- j 
tor requested Leoni to summon Antonio, and I was 
surprised to see that Madame became sad and dis- 
quieted. 

Nannine, answering the bell, was questioned re- 
garding my father, and it was evident, by her man- 
ner, there was something she avoided mentioning ; 
and she hastily offered to “ send Antonio,” adding, 

“ the baron went out an Hour ago, in his sleigh.” 

“ My dear Kate,” said the doctor to Madame, “I 
wish to know the extent of the fainting-spell the 
baron had in his chamber on Wednesday night; 
and it is better not to conceal the real state of affairs ; 


STRIFE. 


31 


from the children. There is no occasion for great 
alarm/’ he said, as we exclaimed at this acknowl- 
edgment that our father had suffered without our 
knowing more of it than the momentary faintness 
we had witnessed at table. 

“Antonio did wrong to conceal my father’s ill- 
ness from me,” said Leoni, with mingled pain and 
displeasure. 

“My dear Leoni, I must acquit Antonio of 
blame,” replied Madame, hastily, and with her irre- 
sistibly persuasive tones. “The baron was merely 
faint after the mental struggle he endured against 
the returns of that violent grief he has brought into 
subjection, and that this fete-day naturally stirred 
again. Antonio called Nannine immediately, and 
your father, on recovering his consciousness, ex- 
pressed the wish, that you should not have the pleas- 
ure of your fete marred by any information of his 
weakness.” 

“ It should be a matter of congratulation also,” 
said Doctor Leon, “that your father could so 
promptly rally from an attack that five years ago 
would have prostrated him for weeks; and that he 
could even elude your tender watchfulness by ap- 
pearing so cheerful — as Nannine reports him — on 
your fete-day. Now, to come to the point, I wish 
very much you would all join me in persuading the 
baron to leave Immergrlin. He is leading a more 
secluded life than his naturally cheerful nature can 
bear without injury. Content to devote his time 
to your instruction and happiness, he only occa- 
sionally sees the.- outside world — then, never^social- 


32 


STRIFE. 


ly; and he admits no one to Immergrlin but the few 
friends who, like Madame and myself, are in entire 
sympathy with him. This must not be. In Italy 
he has many old court friends, with whom his pre- 
sent associations would be of the most cheerful 
character. And two years of entire change of 
scene, habits, climate, and intercourse would be of 
incalculable advantage to him, and better for you 
all. I will begin with the youngest. Come, Min- 
nette, which do you prefer, orange-blossoms, or 
sn'ow-flakes ? ” 

“ I should like it to be always summer,” I replied; 
“and on sunny days my father is always more genial.” 

“I was sure of that vote. Now, Master Leon, 
your voice, if you please ? ” 

“I am so extravagantly fond of travel that I 
could not offer an objection, unless it were to doubt 
the possibility of your effecting an arrangement to 
separate my father from yourself, doctor.” 

“It will require our joint philosophy, my boy, to 
avoid, on this occasion, the imputation of folly. 
And I must beg you will none of you aid your 
father in an attempt at a compromise. If we should 
accompany you the result would not be the same.” 

Ethel’s fair ringlets and my dark curls were in 
ominous proximity at that moment, and something 
very like a lamentation was threatening, when Leoni 
said : 

“ Ah, doctor, if you are willing to trust my father 
away without your care, I am comforted by your 
confidence. But I shall sadly miss these very assu- 
rances ^f yours, that have power to^quiet my fears.” 


STRIFE. 


33 


It was too much. Ethel and I broke into a loud 
wail ; and the doctor and my brother fled from the 
room, while Madame and Leoni shared their pocket- 
handkerchiefs with us. Neither Ethel nor myself 
were ever known to be provided for these occasions, 
so it was a mercy they were rare. 

Madame conquered herself first, and then put our 
wo^s to rout by the most tempting descriptions of 
the pleasures in store for us, and a confidential 
promise that she would manage to make the doc- 
tor relent, and bring herself and Ethel to surprise 
us in some of the most delightful places we visited.” 

When the doctor and Leon returned to the library, 
they had consulted with Antonio, and were con- 
vinced my father was not threatening any serious 
attack, and only required the enlivening influence 
that our proposed tour would aflbrd. 

“ What have we here?” exclaimed Madame, look- 
ing curiously through a window that commanded a 
view of the carriage-entrance to the castle. 

It is the baron ! ” answered Ethel ; “ and he has 
two persons with him in the sleigh. They look for 
all the world like Santa Claus, so covered with snow ! ” 
A small avalanche shot off the robe that my father 
held up, while Antonio assisted an old gentleman — 
a Rip Van Winkle specimen — out of the sleigh; and 
a tall, straight figure in woman s garb stepped out 
beside them, her keen black eyes throwing one 
glance at our winSow from under the rim of a half- 
high beaver, as she turned to follow my father into 
the castle. 

c 


f 


I 

( 

CHAPTER III. I 

'i 

NECESSITY. , 

I 

I HAVE lively recollections of my father’s favor- ] 
ite occupation in the old library at Immergrlin j 
— the translation of Sophocles and his cheerful con- j 
temporaries. There was a certain hour allotted to i 
me, when I was^ but eight years old, which, with | 
the tyrannical propensities of that juvenile period, I : 
insisted on having entire. But sometimes the hour j 
sounded before my father laid down his work ; so j 
my pertinacious head was sure to come between his < 
eyes and the pages of his primitive acquaintances ; 
who flourished four hundred years before Christ. ! 
Their one-sided lanterns threw out for my father | 
more pleasing rays than some of the most com- j 
pletely luminous emanations from patent lights of | 
modern days; and I strongly suspect he would I 
rather have taken his chances in the Shades where - 
these heathen philosophers commune, than be | 
doomed to the companionship of some of their j 
opponents in the prospective millennium ! ^ 

Sometimes I was induced to compromise with < 
my father, and hear him read aloud certain inter- , 
esting passages, that I was expected to understand 
as children generally comprehend fables and fairy I 

34 


STRIFE. 


35 


tales. But the result fumed out differently, and, 
like many an older listener, I turned the problems 
over in my mind till I formed my own theory, and 
was prepared to give independent evidence of some 
remarkable inferences — at least original. 

My bonne, Nannine, had the principal benefit of 
my speculations on Greek philosophy; and some- 
times she regarded me as a sort of human strait- 
jacket for the crazy wits of a superannuated grand- 
lama, who had mistaken his way to Immergrlin on 
the occasion of the latest transmigration. Once I 
solemnly remonstrated with her for saying “ there 
was no necessity” for a certain request of mine to 
be attended to. I insisted that the word necessity 
must not be used carelessly; and that my father 
said '‘it was taking a great liberty,^ and might of- 
fend an awful goddess.” Supposing herself guilty of 
the sin of levity against some canonized female in 
the Roman Catholic Calendar, as I had never in my 
Protestant arguments so much as hinted at female 
deities, Nannine hastily made the sign of the cross, 
to avert the penalty of her sin of unconsciousness, 
and asked, “What saint do you mean? the heatheyi 
call them goddesses.” 

In Nannine’s mind the human race was divided 
into three classes : Roman Catholics, heretics or 
intelligent Protestants, heathen or ignorant Protest- 
ants. Without the slightest idea that the origin of 
Nannine’s faith in minor saints was by sleight of 
hand, a conversion of the apotheosis of the Greeks 
and ancient Romans into canonization by the modern 


36 


STRIFE. 


Romans, I went on lucidly^xposing my own igno- 
rance; just as many a one ha^ done in my hearing, 
without the plea of childhood for an excuse. 

If Nannine ever had any Protestant proclivities, 
they were restrained from that date. 

“ My father says,” I began, by way of confirming 
the truth of my argument — of course I confirmed 
Nannine’s prejudice — “ that these wise Greeks de- 
clared, ‘We are subject to kings, kings to the gods, 
and God to necessity.’ ” Nannine’s eyes grew very 
large, and then a sort of film gathered over them, as 
if all the mist I had been trying to clear from her 
benighted vision had only concentrated itself and 
dimmed her orbs effectually. 

Perhaps her expression at that moment suggested 
more of the Athenian faith. , 

“ Necessity is a blind goddess,” I said, “ and has 
not much intelligence, and all iron nails, wedges, ; 
anchors, and melted lead are emblems of her inflexi- | 
ble severity.” ; 

But I must not continue to tell how I perverted j 
unconsciously the truths conveyed in those sublime ; 
symbolical mysteries of the impious but grand old ^ 
Greeks. I will add six years to the mental process 
by which my father brought me to more just and { 
clearer views of the rich thought contained in his 
favorite tragedies, and tell you, indulgent reader, 
howl recalled passages of the .^Edipus Coloneus, 
where the blind father is led by his daughter to the ’ 
sacred groves, when I found my father’s strange guests 
comfortably installed in apartments on the sunny 


STRIFE. 


37 


side of the castle, their Vet garments exchanged for 
more comfortable and becoming robes furnished 
from the wardrobe of our hospitable homestead. 
The door of their sitting-room was partly open as I 
passed to my room on the same floor, and I could 
view their satisfaction and quiet delight with the 
pleasant shelter offered them from a tempest of 
snow and sleet, without being an obstacle to their 
enjoyment. 

There was a cheerful regard for the comfort of the 
old man, that made the expression of the large pale- 
featured woman, younger by thirty years at least than 
her companion, almost beautiful, in their warm, 
generous glow of kindness. I had never imagined 
Antigone, the model of perfect womanhood, so 
largely moulded as this type of a rare physical 
growth; but something inexpressibly gentle in 
Mademoiselle Beaumont’s manner of addressing and 
approaching her father, reminded me at once of the 
lines of the .^dipus Coloneus devoted to the ex- 
quisite description of the daughter’s first view of 
Athens, and her fearless guidance of her blind father 
within the forbidden circle of the sacred oracles. 
When the chorus, apparently blind to the identity 
of .^dipus, as his goddess Necessity, querulously 
calls out, A vagrant, some vagrant is the old man, 
and not a native, or he would never have trespassed 
on the untrodden plantation of these immitigable 
virgins, whom we tremble to mention, and pass by 
without a glance, without a sound, without a word, 
4 


38 


STRIFE. 


uttering the silent language of reverential thought 
alone.” 

After this warning .^dipus speaks : “ Do thou 
now, my child, lead me, that we may at once, adopt- 
ing a pious course, be partly speakers, partly listen- 
ers, and not war with necessity P 

Antigone submissively replies, My father, this is 
my duty : do thou quietly adjust thy step by my step.” 

So I imagined these strangers were communing 
when my father overtook them on the banks of the 
Elbe, struggling against the tempestuous winds, with 
the sleet driving in their faces, and causing them to 
stagger blindly on the very edge of the river-bank, 
where every step was perilous in the treacherous 
snow-drifts. 

“ They were avoiding Immergrlin as forbidden 
ground,” said my father, and mistook our modest 
chapel for a Catholic church, and the old castle for 
a convent. When I urged them — seeing the old 
man becoming exhausted — to enter the sleigh and 
let me bring them to Immergrlin till the storm was 
past, the daughter replied, in words as quaint as the 
fashion of her garments : 

” ‘ If the hospitable offer holds good on confession 
that we are Protestants, we will gladly accept it.’ ” 

“And what are they thinking to accomplish by 
travelling afoot in such inclement weather? ” asked 
the doctor. 

“That they will answer for themselves,” replied 
my father, “ when they are sufficiently rested. I 
promise myself a treat in hearing the history of this 


STRIFE. 39 

old man, who has outlived his generation, and seems 
but a solitary relic of the past.” 

“ I should greatly prefer a short discussion on the 
prospects of certain friends of mine, for a future re- 
sult of certclin plans of mine,” said the doctor, dryly. 

A quick glance of surprise and inquiry from my 
father was met by one of perfect indifference to the 
scrutiny on the doctor’s part, and finding no assu- 
rance of any implied knowledge of his recent illness 
in the masked countenance, my father smiled, and 
continued 

“ Well, you may have all the time between now 
and dinner to exhibit the plans for your air-castles, 
and I claim your attention for my guests after that. 
They are Moravians, and, being Cubans of more 
than ordinary cultivation, speak the purest Castilian 
dialect.” 

If there was anything that Dr. Leon cherished 
with peculiar care, it was his fondness for his Span- 
ish tongue, and already my father, Madame, Ethel, 
my brother, sister, and myself had acquired consid- 
erable knowledge of Spanish through the doctor’s 
energetic “ professorship.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


A DREAM. 

W HEN my father and the doctor retired to the 
smoking-room, and Ethel was occupied with 
Leon and my sister in examining some coins, I 
seized the opportunity to communicate a dream to 
Madame. Madame was thoroughly French, and 
laughingly called me “ a little beclouded German 
dreamer, who would never be able to frighten her 
with the feverish visions of a fanciful imagination.” 

But I think on this occasion I surprised her into a 
momentary forgetfulness of her boasted resolution. 
It is but fair that I tell the whole truth of the mat- 
ter, and let the reader judge for himself. 

I decoyed Madame into my boudoir with a prom- 
ise that she should hear how my father discovered 
the secret preparations for the fete. 

Threatening to withhold my story if Madame af- 
fected amazement at the confused mass of ” girl- 
rubbish” — materials for articles being made up for a 
fair — scattered over floor and furniture of my sanc- 
tum, Madame chose to ignore the disorder, and 
seated herself in an easy-chair by the grate fire. I 
took one opposite, and we placed our feet on the 

40 


STRIFE. 


41 


rounds of the fender t— a feminine practice — and I 
began : 

“ Soon after you left with Ethie, on Wednesday 
evening, sister and Leon went to bed, my father re- 
tired to his room, and I came to this room, where 
Nannine was ordering and dusting the furniture, pre- 
vious to my arranging the table for the presents. 

Nannine spread a crimson cover on the octagon 
table, festooned it with some hot-house vines, and 
then, with my permission, brought in Frederike, the 
pastry-cook, who placed the handsomely iced cake 
in the centre of the table.” 

The lettering and those figures in the date would 
do credit to the most proficient chef^' Madame as- 
serted. 

“ Fritz, the gardener,” I continued, “brought those 
pretty vases filled with the precious flowers I have 
scarcely ventured even to admire the last three 
weeks. Edrina, the housemaid, appeared in the door- 
way, smiling and courtesying, with a pair of brush- 
racks which her brother carved and polished as bright 
as he makes the glossy coat of Ebony, my black 
pony. Edrina’s pride in the handiwork of her brother 
was equal to her pleasure in presenting the gifts. 

“ ‘ Please, mademoiselle,’ she said, ‘ if the racks 
are pretty enough — Hans carved them.’ 

“ Frau Herrmann, the housekeeper, produced a 
pair of fire-screens painted by Karl, her son, who 
copies for the Meissen factory, and has a remarkable 
genius for his art.” 


4 


42 


STRIFE. 


Madame smiled as if she doubted whether my 
praise was deserved. Her incredulity was changed 
to surprise when I placed one of the screens in her 
hands. 

“ Oh ! ” she exclaimed, “ this was done by that 
poor boy with a spinal affection. Is he Frau Herr- 
mann’s son ? I would know his work anywhere.” 

” He is indeed her son,” I replied ; “ and I shall not 
fail to tell him you recognized his work so pleasantly. 
It will afford one solace for many thankless tasks.” 
Poor boy ! how painfully sensitive he is regarding 
his deformity. One day last week I entered the long 
room, where I love to go in without disturbing that 
absorbed interest each artist has in his work — some 
sketching little perspective views from their win- 
dows overlooking the valley, and others copying, 
with marvellous accuracy, some of the most difficult 
designs of the masters. Karl did not perceive my 
presence till I had stood almost beside him sev- 
eral minutes. I spoke to him, and he started and 
blushed, with a shrinking gesture, as if guilty of 
crime in permitting his deformed little figure to be 
seen. 

” ‘ Karl,’ I said, ^ you are making a beautiful copy 
ot the San Sisto Madonna; it is more truthful in 
expression than any I find elsewhere.’ 

” ‘ Ah ! Mademoiselle de Stalberg,’ he replied, * I 
know your kind motive, but you overrate my modest 
work.’ 

“ ‘ No, Karl; indeed I find in no other copies that 



STRIFE. 


43 


trance of heavenly joy in the Madonna’s expression, 
with the slightest shade of prophetic musing, that 
one must look for the second time to be sure his 
own vision is not clouded. How can you transfer 
that gleam of Raphael’s genius without something 
of the same inspiration that originated it ? ’ 

** * Mademoiselle, do I really succeed in pleasing 
you so well ? Then let me confess my secret. I 
never see the holy satisfaction in the eyes of Ra- 
phael’s Madonna, but I think how happy the holy 
mother was in the assurance that the divine beauty 
of the Son could never become changed to a painful 
deformity like mine.’ 

^ Karl,’ I said, reprovingly, * the genius that con- 
soles your hours of pain would be dearly exchanged 
for a graceful casket without the gift.’ 

“‘Thanks, mademoiselle; I will cherish the recol- 
lection of that reproof,’ and a tremor of repressed 
pleasure forced the white thin hands to suspend 
their work. Yesterday I sent a copy of my mother’s 
miniature likeness for him to paint; and Frau Herr- 
mann said when she gave it to him with the mes- 
sage he burst into tears. As he is to paint it at his 
leisure, the copy may not be finished before we leave 
Immergriin. Will you receive it, Madame? My 
father has already paid for the work.’’ 

“ How the peasantry will miss your father, even 
as far as Meissen!” said Madame, with more emotion 
than she often betrayed. “ My dear Minnette, each 
precept of your father is well worth recording ; it is 
verified by his own noble conduct.” 


44 


STR IFE. 


When I had responded to this praise of my almost 
idolized parent, I came back to my description of 
the arrangements for the fete, and it was Madame 
who ran away from it the next time. 

“ Nannine and Antonio,” I continued, “ gave me a 
surprise when they brought the very things we had 
been wishing for : those sleeping Cupids in bronze 
for Leoni, and the head of the young Augustus in 
marble, for Leon.” 

“ Minnette,” said Madame, with a serious air, her 
countenance clouding, “ it is unfortunate that Anto- 
nio is so confirmed a Papist ; Nannine is as faithful 
to her Catholic creed, but she is not a narrow tool 
of the Pope, as Antonio can be. I almost regret the 
doctor brought him from Rome ; for if Nannine had 
been left to us without Antonio’s influence, she might 
have been a good Protestant by this time.” 

Antonio is scrupulously exact in the performance 
of every duty my father appoints,” I remarked. 

“ No doubt,” replied Madame ; and he would 
as scrupulously betray him to the Papal Government, 
should his confessor so order him. But your father 
is wise enough to protect himself ; and of course he 
would not be induced to travel without Antonio.” 

Madame’s suggestion was not a cheerful one, you 
will admit, dear reader. 

Nannine had been my mother’s maid five years, 
when Dr. Leon brought Antonio from Rome to 
assist him with his professional correspondence and 
numerous duties to the sick in the parish. After 
my mother’s death, Antonio was the night-watcher 


STRIFE. 


45 


at my father’s bedside through all the sleepless 
nights that followed his nervous prostration ; and 
finally, with characteristic generosity, the doctor 
begged my father to retain Antonio altogether, as 
his services proved indispensable. 

Nannine’s bright eyes and rosy cheeks were not 
lost on Antonio, and she was no less pleased with 
the courteous attentions of one her superior in grade, 
though not in education. My mother had taken 
great pains to instruct Nannine in all knowledge 
suitable to her station, and she was equal in refine- 
ment to many who claim superior advantages. 

The marriage contract was displeasing to myself 
only ; for I was but five years old then, and fancied 
myself entitled to sole and entire possession of “ my 
Nannine.” 

However, Antonio was careful not to irritate my 
jealousy, and finally won me over completely ; so I 
dubbed him with the distinguished title of “ Nan- 
nine’s Antonio.” 

It was hard to believe that, after nine years’ ser- 
vice, such a servant could be dangerous to his mas- 
ter’s interests. 

It will do no harm to suggest a little precaution 
to the baron; and Twill say to him,” continued 
Madame, “that his very dignity of demeanor and 
reticence of manner will make him the object of 
jealous suspicion to the spies of the Papal Govern- 
ment. Always guard your expressions in Italy before 
either Nannine or Antonio, and you will spare them 


46 


STRIFE. 


the pain of repeating anything dangerous at the 
confessional.” 

“Then it is the system that is base! ” I exclaimed. 
“And our danger rests more with the Government 
than our poor servants, who would never treacher- 
ously invent cause for complaint against us.” 

Madame assented, and the uncomfortable subject 
was dropped for the fete again. 

“After duly examining the splendid brooch and 
studs you sent,” I proceeded, “ and the doctor’s 
bracelet and guard-chain — ” 

“ Poor, dear, abused man I ” interrupted Madame, 
and then laughed again at the recollection of his 
perturbation. 

“I placed them on the table; and after placing 
all the congratulatory notes in Ethel’s beautiful 
portfolio, I concluded the list with my bracelet and 
guard - chain. I had dismissed Nannine, and sat 
down to indulge in a little sentiment on my own 
account, when the door opened, and in walked my 
father. 

“‘I missed you from your room, my child, where 
I went to kiss Leoni, on the eve of her birthday, 
or I might not have enjoyed your preparations for 
the fete, which you have concealed from me!’ he 
said, and looked so sadly reproachful I could not 
refrain from tears. 

“‘You intended it for the best,’ he said, caressingly 
taking my hand. ‘But, my daughter, to be treated 
as one too weak to bear the trials for which, as I 
am not responsible, I can view with some degree of 


STRIFE. 


47 


fortitude and philosophy even, pains me more than 
I can express. It is mistaken kindness, my dear 
Minnette. After this, come to me with full confidence 
on every subject relating to our sweet Spirit. I feel 
she is always with us; and if these memorial days 
are fraught with sadness, I will at least enjoy the 
consciousness that I am not deprived of my chil- 
dren’s confidence. That is the greatest happiness 
left me.’ 

“ Imagine my surprise when he gave me those 
three elegant medallions, containing his own and 
my mother’s likenesses. And we never suspected 
that my father even remembered the day.” 

Madame took the medallion I detached from my 
necklace, and turned away from me to examine it 
by the window. 

I had not observed the fire sinking to a few dull 
embers; and I rang for Antonio, as Madame re- 
treated to the lounge, without a comment, after 
looking intently at my mother’s picture. 

The lights were brought by Nannine, who said 
“Antonio had been sent with a prescription to the 
apothecary, for Frau Hermann’s son, Karl, who was 
suffering from a cold. The baron had directed 
Antonio to wait for the mixture, and take it to Karl, 
so he could not be at home in time to wait at 
dinner.” 

“ That has been a preconcerted plan of your father 
and the doctor,” said Madame, coming out of her 
corner, as Nannine left the room with a cheery fire 


48 


STRIFE. 


blazing from fresh pine-logs, and lights burning in 
the brackets over the mantel. 

“Yes,” I replied; “and now I shall barely have 
time before dinner to relate my dream.” 

That dream was stranger than fiction. A wiser 
head than mine suggests, “What reason cannot 
explain, it cannot have dictated” — placing such 
visions under the head of revelation. And so far as 
I am concerned, that dream remains there to this day. 

“After a cheerful talk about the plans for the fete,” 
I continued, “ I accompanied my father as far as the 
door of my chamber, and had no idea he felt ill 
when he bade me ' good night ! ’ After I was un- 
dressed, and Nannine had left me, I sat down to 
toast my feet at the fire, and, I suppose, fell asleep. 
I seemed to be wandering through long halls, and 
passing open doors of innumerable apartments, that 
offered no attraction to me, though I was worn out 
with fatigue. Finally, I entered one room, even more 
desolate than all the others. Sinking on the cold 
stone floor, I cried out in my exhaustion, ‘ Oh, my 
mother; I am alone in my grief, shut out from all 
human sympathy ! ’ 

“The echoes of my own despair were thrown 
back by the relentless walls, and I bowed my head 
with anguish at my loneliness. 

“ A strange rustling sound over my head startled 
me. I looked up, and saw a pale misty cloud per- 
vading the room, and a luminous spot near the ceil- 
ing, whence the sound seemed to have come. An 
outline of a scroll first appeared, then a hand be- 


STRIFE. 


49 


came plainly visible, holding the scroll; and as the 
scroll fell open with a distinct rustling sound, my 
mother’s face appeared, looking at me with a mourn- 
ful tenderness, and she seemed to sigh rather than 
utter the sentence, ‘My child, my child, why are 
you so impatient?’ Then gradually fading, the 
bright spot was a blank again, and I found myself 
standing, the scroll at my feet. I picked it up 
hastily, and found outlined sketches of forms I re- 
cognized as my father’s, sister’s, brother’s; and, 
Madame, if you can credit my word, two forms that 
corresponded with those of the old man and his 
daughter, now our guests.” 

‘‘Was that all your dream?” she asked. 

‘‘No; the strangest part to me is to come,” I an- 
swered, and continued with more earnestness, e^s I 
detected an interest Madame could not conceal. 

“ I had hardly asked myself what those outlines 
indicated, when on one side of the room the mist 
spread itself as one would stretch a canvas sheet 
for a magic lantern, and on it the forms were dupli- 
cated, and gradually became full, life-size figures : 
then their vestments appeared to float around them, 
and finally the figures became bright ethereal forms, 
invested with spirit-life, and yet images unmistak- 
able of the earthly ones outlined on my scroll. 

‘“Till this is accomplished, necessity forbids you to 
rest.’ 

‘‘ The voice was my mother’s again. I saw her 
face for an instant in the same place, over my head, 
and when my tearful eyes fell from the blank that 
5 D 


50 


STRIFE. 


came between her gaze and mine, the forms and 
mist had all disappeared, and I started from my 
chair with a cry of alarm. 

“ Leoni was dreadfully startled by my cry, but less 
bewildered than I, though she had been disturbed 
from a sound sleep. She questioned me so closely, 
it was strange I did not tell her the dream. But 
somehow I felt I had no right to repeat it, any more 
than I ought to reveal the actual secrets of one party 
that had been confided to me, to another whom that 
secret concerned. Finding I could not or would not 
recall my dream, Leoni insisted on my taking a 
soothing draught, and would not go to bed again 
till I was safe in mine. But long after she thought 
I slept, my mind was busy with every detail of that 
vivid dream.” 

Your conversation with your father, and the ex- 
citement of the preparation for the fete made you 
nervous,” said Madame, trying to assume a depre- 
cating tone. 

“ How do you account for the identity of this old 
man and his daughter? ” I asked. 

“Who can account for the freaks of any one’s 
imagination?” Madame retorted, as dinner was an- 
nounced. 


CHAPTER V. 

FATHER BEAUMONT. 

M adame and I were the last to enter the 
library, where we usually assembled before 
dinner was announced. 

Our guests were greatly amused at Leon’s account 
of the blunders he had made in assorting some 
coins he had collected for chronological arrange- 
ment. After Madame’s introduction to “ Mademoi- 
selle Beaumont” and “Father Beaumont,” I was 
presented by my father as “ My little one, Minnette.” 

My dream was so fearfully vivid as I approached 
F'ather Beaumont, that I trembled when his bony 
hand closed over mine, and his aged eyes fixed on 
my face an eager, inquiring look. My feeling was 
akin to that which causes me, to this day, a shrink- 
ing sensation when some people assume that vanish- 
ing expression that seems to promise a startling rev- 
elation when they have receded to a sufficiently im- 
pressive point. 

But Father Beaumont no doubt detected my nerv- 
ousness, and his grave expression instantly changed 
to a pleasant smile. His regard had been only that 
intense earnestness with which age, with its hand 

SI 


52 


STRIFE. 


already on the veil, looks back at youth, still enter- 
taining the bright promises of life. 

The blessing that I usually received with silent 
awe when it was pronounced by aged bishops who 
visited my father, affected me differently when Father 
Beaumont, still holding my hand, said, solemnly : 
“The Lord be with thee daughter!’’ I involuntarily 
responded, “ And with thy spirit.” 

Mademoiselle Beaumont drew my hand in her 
arm, leaving my father to escort Father Beaumont, 
and Leon to lead Ethel to the dining-hall, and with 
as little ceremony w^e took our places at table. 

The conversation was general on topics of local 
interest, till after the dessert; and I was recalled 
from a contemplation of Father Beaumont’s gray 
head, that had sent my wits on a roving expedition 
to the haunts of the Parcas, where the three fatal 
ladies performed all the characters attributed to them, 
appearing principally as “three old women with large 
locks of white wool, and daffodils on their heads,” 
according to my last lesson in mythology, when I 
was reminded of my mundane existence by Nannine 
saying, in an undertone : 

“ Mademoiselle, please take a goblet of cream in 
place of coffee, this evening.” 

I should have assented to poison rather than pro- 
long the settlement of the question at that moment 
and attract attention to my self-conscious stupidity 
and ill manners. But when Father Beaumont began 
to sip at his coffee, and remarked : “ This ‘ Saxon 
Switzerland’ reminds me of a place called the ' Swit- 


STRIFE. 53 

zerland of America/ that I visited on my way from 
the West Indies/’ I repented my decision. 

Father Beaumont was ready to talk, and a cup of 
coffee adds so much to the pleasure of a chatty old 
gentleman’s communications. 

Little did I dream how near to us all were “The 
Three Sisters,” weaving in with that old man’s story 
the threads of our own destiny. 

There was an unearthly attraction, I can recall now, 
in Father Beaumont. It was not the awe nor the 
solemnity that are inseparable from honorable old 
age. It was not only the calm confidence of ripened 
judgment, with its graceful charities clustered around 
it — not the silvery voice made more touching by its 
faint tremor: it was something added to all these — 
something more than all these. That light in the 
eye, that holy light that shines in the countenances 
of the dear ones we have seen pallid and haggard 
with pain, and suddenly there is no more pain — but 
the shadows have not yet closed around them ; even 
death is awed for a time by their mysterious beauty. 
We have all witnessed this first unconscious greet- 
ing of the soul to the invisible messenger of rest; 
the unearthly light radiating from their spiritual 
countenances. And the memory of their peaceful 
entrance into the light whose reflection almost 
dazzled our mortal eyes, serves to soften our grief 
when they have faded from our sight. Yes, for have 
we not seen our loved ones glorified? 

I caught that expression in Father Beaumont’s 
face ; but I had never seen death, or witnessed its 
5 * 


54 


STRIFE. 


approach; and I thought merely as the others did, 
who listened to his story, that the associations of 
the past were lending their gentle harmonies as ac- 
companiments to the simple story of his childhood, 
and the recollections of a father whom he had rev- 
erenced. 

I regret, for the reader’s sake, that in the transla- 
tion, the poetic fervor, that the Spanish language 
supplied^ must be lost. 

FATHER Beaumont’s story. 

I was born in the year 1762. I am eighty-four 
years of age. 

My father. General Beaumont, was an officer in 
the household of the King, of Poland, Stanislaus, 
when, after the vicissitudes of a brief reign as king, 
he retired to the Duchy of Lorraine, and consoled 
himself for past failures in what had seemed to him 
worthy attempts, by ruling the duchies of Lorraine 
and Bar as a righteous prince. 

Nancy, the capital of Lorraine, was my native city. 
I have no recollection of its appearance when I 
was a boy, nor of the King Stanislaus, who died 
when I was but four years old. 

Since my return to Europe in the past months, I 
have visited the chateau my father occupied, and 
was pleased to find in every part of it the tokens of 
his veneration for the prince he served. Portraits, 
busts, and even a life-size statue of the king, were 
in my father’s chateau, its most conspicuous orna- 
ments. 


STRIFE. 


55 


My father assisted with his excellent judgment in 
the architectural plans for many of the public build- 
ings with which Stanislaus embellished Nancy; and 
it was of him that the attachment of the king became 
historical, though I believe his name has never been 
mentioned in the incident relating to my father only. 

It came to the king’s knowledge that General 
Beaumont, in distributing orders for certain moneys 
intrusted to him for charitable purposes, had ex- 
ceeded his allowance, and, rather than disappoint the 
poor people who applied for their portions after the 
king’s limit had been reached, he supplied the defi- 
ciency out of his own purse, though he suffered by 
it considerable inconvenience. It is not often the 
good deeds of subjects are reported to their rulers, 
but my father was fortunate in having several friends 
who repeated their admiration of his honorable and 
unselfish conduct in the presence of Stanislaus. 

Not seeming to notice their remarks, his majesty 
continued sketching a draught for a new hospital at 
Luneville. When it was completed, he said : 

“ Summon General Beaumont to our presence.” 

My father came, and the sketch was submitted to 
his approval. He suggested several changes. 

** On what ground ?” asked the king. 

By a slight additional expense your majesty can 
make an institution that would satisfy the most ex- 
travagant expectations, and avoid the imputation of 
sparingness, where your majesty is, in reality, ex- 
tremely liberal, and should leave no room for cavil- 
lers.” 


S6 


STRIFE. 


Bring me the treasurer,” said the king, and 
hastily wrote three orders, which he gave to the 
treasurer, with these directions : 

” That,” said he, laying down the first, is an ap- 
propriation for the hospital at Luneville, subject to 
General Beaumont’s orders or drafts. 

“That,” giving him the second, “is an order on 
the king’s private treasury for the sum of the deficit 
in the last alms-deed of the king.” 

My father was overwhelmed with shame at this 
rebuke, as he thought it, when the king continued, 
laying the third order on the treasurer’s table : 

“ That is the sum to be paid annually to General 
Beaumont from the king’s treasury.” 

“In what quality shall I mark him, your majesty?” 
said the treasurer. 

''As my friend^' answered the monarch. 

While Father Beaumont improved this period to 
refresh himself with sips of coffee, I filled up the 
pause in secret self-congratulation on a better ap- 
preciation of certain stubborn facts that appeared 
dubious no longer, as they were stated in my last 
lesson in chronology : 

“ How Adam might have conversed with Methu- 
selah about two hundred and fifty years, and he, 
about six hundred years with Noah, and one hun- 
dred years with Shem ; and how Shem lived long 
enough before the flood to converse one hundred 
and fifty years with Abraham ! ” 

After a sufficient pause. Father Beaumont contin- 


STRIFE. 


57 


ued the story that, as I must again warn the reader, 
was the warp and woof of that complete fabrication in 
which the fatal ladies already alluded to were weav- 
ing the designs illustrated in the story of every list- 
ener to Father Beaumont, not excepting Nannine. 

Stanislaus died in 1766, and my father. General 
Beaumont, had the affliction, immediately after this 
loss, to be bereft of his wife’s companionship. At 
my mother’s death I was but four, and my brother 
Emil eight years of age. 

My father had only one friend to advise with 
when the means to assist the crowds who declared 
themselves friends were struck from his hands by 
the blow that deprived him of king and wife. 

How far this friend was influenced by disinter- 
ested motives time will show, as it proves all other 
professions. The Abbe de I’Etoile offered my father 
an important position as financier for a company at 
Martinico, in the West India Islands, trading with 
France. 

Emil and myself were placed in the Monastery 
of St. Jerome, under the guardianship of the abbe, 
whose brother, the Count de I’Etoile, bore the oldest 
hereditary title in the kingdom of Lorraine. 

My father served the company by which he was 
employed as faithfully as he had served his king; 
but with more prudence, he invested privately his 
own profits in an estate at Havana, and had scarcely 
paid his last instalment that secured his clear own- 
ership, when it was discovered that the company he 


STRIFE. 


58 

served was controlled by the Jesuits — the abbe 
holding a special partnership — and the society fall- 
ing under the disgrace of the crown, the company 
was financially ruined! That was in 1766. I was 
fourteen, Emil eighteen. My father requested the 
abbe to send us to America to be with him in 
Havana; but Emil, completely influenced by the 
abbe, declared he had a vocation for the monastic 
life, and I was sent alone with the abbe’s secretary 
to consult with the American ambassador, then at 
the Court of Versailles. He, Dr. Franklin, recom- 
mended me to the care of Count Pulawski, who was 
about to sail for America, to join in the struggle 
just beginning between the colonists and Great 
Britain. 

Owing to severe storms and adverse winds, our 
voyage was tedious ; and I realized none of the 
pleasures of a sea-voyage, so delightfully described 
by poets and musicians. When we arrived at New 
York, my father had come all the way from Ha- 
vana to meet me, and it seemed, in the joy of that 
reunion, as if the world had no more happiness to 
offer me. 

Pausing to recover his composure. Father Beau- 
mont was prohibited, by Dr. Leon, from a continua- 
tion of his story, till he had rested a half-hour at 
least. 

In the mean time we adjourned to the library. 


CHAPTER VI. 


SPERANZA. 

M ademoiselle beaumont was not 

handsome. Her features were not beauti- 
ful, her complexion not fair. And yet there was a 
peculiar sweetness of expression, a sincerity in her 
direct look, when your eye met hers, that instantly 
won your esteem and confidence. Her figure was 
tall, but well balanced, and her carriage in walking 
was by no means awkward. 

Taking my hand in hers as we arose from the 
table the evening of her arrival, she completely con- 
cealed my thin hand in her solid palm, smiling as 
she closed her fingers one by one over mine. Then 
looking in my face, her countenance became almost 
sad, and she inquired with a womanly tenderness, 
“ Have you been ill, recently ? ” 

“Oh, no! Mademoiselle Beaumont,” I replied; “I 
am never really ill I ” 

“You are very slight and pale,” she replied; “and 
I am afraid these long curls are taking more than 
their share of your strength.” 

“ My sister and Dr. Leon have been at variance 
on that question for some time,” I replied; “and I 
am really indifferent as to their decision.” 


59 


6o 


STRIFE. 


Your sister is averse to the sacrifice of them, no 
doubt, but it might be rewarded by the acquisition 
of a few roses to these pale cheeks ; and the nutri- 
ment they are stealing might repair some of the 
waste of this thin little body.” 

“ Minnette never was strong in appearance as this 
great Saxon girl of mine,” interrupted Dr. Leon, 
drawing Ethel’s long golden hair through his fin- 
gers. “ But the Baron de Stalberg has decided on a 
tour of a year or two in Italy, and I hope for won- 
derful results from that journey.” 

“ I trust we shall meet there,” Mademoiselle hastily 
replied; then pausing, her expression became anxious 
almost, as she continued : “ But our way lies apart 
from the highways where travellers are drawn by 
the attractions of art. Our mission is to the wilds 
usually dreaded and avoided by pleasure-seekers. 
And only imperative duty would incline any one to 
go through the passes of the Abruzzi, infested by 
brigands and lawless gypsies.” 

Ethel’s eyes had grown larger with every word 
Mademoiselle Beaumont uttered, and we were quite 
prepared for the exclamation that followed, as the 
doctor left the room : 

“ Oh, Minnette, imagine how delightful it must be 
to see those strange people in their own haunts ! 
And pray. Mademoiselle Beaumont, what sort of a 
charm do you carry to prevent their injuring you ? ” 

We laughed heartily at Ethel’s eager interest in 
the gypsies, and at what we supposed her absurd 
question. But we became suddenly grave when 


STRIFE. 


6l 


Mademoiselle Beaumont actually produced a talis- 
man ! 

“ This little medal is not invested with any spell 
of necromantic art, but it was left by my uncle at the 
Monastery of St. Jerome, for us to use as a passport 
through the wilds of the Abruzzi.” 

The medal was of gold, not worn with handling, 
but dull from age. On one side it bore the inscrip- 
tion of a lighted torch, the flame held up ; on the 
other side was the simple word, Speranza ! 

“ Why, Minnette,” exclaimed Leon, “ see, this 
medal is inscribed with one of the forms of our 
motto ! ” 

My father had accompanied Father Beaumont to 
his sitting-room, the doctor was enjoying a meer- 
schaum, and my sister was employed in directing 
some arrangements for the comfort of our guests in 
their sleeping apartments. 

So there was no one to detect the overpowering 
emotion excited in my mind by this unexpected en- 
couragement of my supernatural inclinations. An 
association that would have startled the coldest skep- 
tic, rushed to my mind, as Mademoiselle Beaumont 
denied the existence of any peculiar power in the 
medal she possessed. Only three days previous 
to my dream, my father placed on my finger my 
mother’s wedding-ring, bearing the same inscription, 
Speranza ! I knew of but three inscriptions of that 
particular form of the motto. They were on my 
mother’s monument, the ring I wore, and the medal 
in Mademoiselle Beaumont’s possession ; and in my 
6 


62 


STRIFE. 


dream, Mademoiselle, my mother, and I were as 
plainly identified as Mademoiselle was to me at that 
moment. 

Madame Leon had often boasted of her utter in- 
sensibihty to “ German mysticism,” and disavowed 
all dread of any indirect supernatural agency in her 
destiny. But with only half my knowledge of this 
coincidence, she turned pale, and regarded me with 
an inquiring look, as if her thoughts were very like 
my own. Was there, after all, some invisible agency, 
by providential suggestion, warning me of unusual 
trial ? Or was some impious spirit seeking, in my 
mother’s form, to afflict me with apprehensions of 
evils to which I was not doomed ? Suddenly I be- 
came jealous of my secret. I regretted that Madame 
knew even my dream ; and I resolved that no one 
should ever again share my confidence on this sub- 
ject. If I were possessed of an evil spirit, I would 
appeal in secret to heaven ; if favored with the min- 
isterings of the blessed, I would wait their instruc- 
tion to reveal it, and guard my compact with them 
as sacred. 

With this resolution, I forced myself to listen to 
the remarks the medal had occasioned, as Made- 
moiselle concluded with this natural inference : 

“It would not be surprising if you should be able 
to trace an association of the origin of these mottos. 
Your ancestors were as likely to be leagued with the 
secret bands who opposed the power of the papacy 
— and who used these secret passwords — as hun- 
dreds of other German, French, and Italian noblemen.” 


STRIFE. 


63 


The doctor, having finished his pipe, returned to 
the library just as Ethel, whose lively observation 
nothing escaped, exclaimed: 

“ Look at Minnette, now ! I never saw such roses 
in her face. Mademoiselle, they are for your especial 
pleasure.” 

The glow of excitement that I was conscious of 
before, now painfully rushed to my head and tingled 
in my eyes, and Ethel was punished for her thought- 
less remark, by her father’s immediate order for me 
to retire, declaring at the same time that he would 
not permit Father Beaumont to make any further 
exertion for our entertainment that evening. 

When the doctor, Madame, and Ethel were gone, 
and I had been enjoying an imaginary trip — not as 
wide of the reality as many of my aerial voyages — 
I became restless to know my father’s opinion of 
the proposition to travel, and insisted on going to 
him, when Nannine told me he was in his sitting- 
room, having dismissed Antonio for the night. 

Dressing-gown, slippers, and shawl were donned 
even while Nannine protested, and the discussion 
ended with an emphatic '' I must go,'* that my good 
bonne never answered. 

” May I come in, father? ” 

I was already in, and the smile that suggested the 
fact encouraged me to close the door of my father’s 
sitting-room, and ensconce myself in a corner of a 
lounge drawn by the fire. 

“ I see by your unusual color, dear child, you are 
* crossing bridges before you come to them,’ and 


64 


STRIFE. 


taking the doctor’s sudden conclusion too seriously. 
How you do fret the poor little imagination that is 
always multiplying problems!” 

But I was very snug by this time, dear reader, for 
my father, while he talked, placed a large sofa-cov- 
erlet on a chair with the deepest arms and highest 
back I ever saw on a chair, and making me sit in it, 
he folded the coverlet all around me, and left only 
my eyes visible, peeping over the coverlet and under 
the shawl twisted around my head ; so I must have 
resembled those pictures of Arab infants buried in a 
bundle of dry-goods posted between the high humps 
of a sleepy camel. I had the advantage over the 
little Arabs, in being able to throw off part of the 
wrappings when they became intolerable. It would 
not be proper for me to seem to boast of being a 
spoiled child ; and yet, as I look back to those days 
of indulgence in every whim my capricious fancy 
could invent, I think my dear father had more pa- 
tience than a human parent could be expected to 
have. But, to do myself justice, let me assert that I 
was free from selfishness, even in my whims. I was 
not cruel. I abhorred rudeness to the meanest peas- 
ant, and would have suffered in silence a long time, 
if my complaint was likely to inflict pain on others. 

Until my eighth year I had been Nannine’s ex- 
clusive charge, and by Dr. Leon’s orders, and Ma- 
dame’s womanly ingenuity, I was kept out of my 
father’s way as much as possible. I almost lived at 
Mahren castle, and Ethel seemed as near to me, in 
my childhood, as my own sister. The morbid in- 


STRIFE. 


65 


fluence of my father, during his prolonged season 
of melancholy despondency, from which I was pro- 
tected, caused that premature gravity of disposition 
in my sister, that was almost painful to witness 
sometimes. And yet my father and Leoni had cer- 
tain characteristics that threw them into irreconcila- 
ble antagonism occasionally ; while every ingredient 
of my versatile — not fickle — nature seemed to find 
an affinity with some corresponding element in my 
father’s character. 

When I was at last permitted to share the privi- 
lege of his companionship with my brother and sis- 
ter, I seemed to realize the privation I had suffered 
so long, and exacted every moment of his attention, 
as I have already acknowledged, to which I could 
make the least claim. 

But I repaid with all the strength of a childish 
devotion my father’s indulgence, and as I grew older 
and wiser, our attachment and mutual confidence in- 
creased ; so when I felt the need of some restraining 
force, my father was my refuge from the impulses 
of my own overwrought imagination, or the goad- 
ings of my sometimes irrepressible nej'ves. 

My brother Leon was enthusiastic in his attach- 
ment to his father, and was a brother such as one 
rarely finds out of a book. 

Leoni would sacrifice herself for any of us, and 
in every crisis proved her infallible affection toward 
father, brother, or sister. 

With such agreement of affections and inclina- 
tions, it was no matter for wonderment that under 
6* E 


66 


STRIFE. 


my father’s training we attained an aptitude for 
acquirements unusual for students so youthful as we. 
But while it is not an impossibility, there are few 
parents who exercise the same force of parental 
love, pride, and judgment, always considerate of 
peculiar tastes or deficiencies of organization, in 
accomplishing the education of their children. In 
this remark, only those parents are included, of 
course, who have all their time and a liberal fortune 
at their command, as my father had. It may not be 
desirable to ripen young minds so rapidly. Premature 
fruit is always somewhat enfeebled in fibre, and more 
or less susceptible to fervid heats or sudden frosts. 
But our father, in his Sybaritic seclusion, had no 
opportunity to compare our progress with others of 
our own age, and was unconscious of our unusual 
attainments, and attributed Dr. Leon’s apprehensive 
warnings to undue anxiety likely to result from pro- 
fessional partiality to certain theories, united with a 
jealous devotion to each of us as well as to every 
interest of my father’s. 

I wish the reader to understand every allusion 
to my fancied “ gift of sight ” in spiritual matters, as 
distinct and entirely apart from any theory or faith 
inculcated by my father or his church. My father 
was eminently a Christian man, and in the Moravian 
doctrine, that he had adopted from convictions of 
the grand power in its very simplicity to elevate 
whoever could grasp it, he found complete satisfac- 
tion. And the rule of that doctrine he made the 
rule of his household, as nearly as possible — 
Christ all, and in all.” 


STRIFE. 


67 


If he had suspected that I was evolving out of the 
elements of my own will and morbid inclinations, as 
it may have been, a system of secret belief, that was 
to control my destiny to an incalculable extent, he 
would have been painfully alarmed, and I should 
never have had the materials, in all probability, of 
which I am making this autobiographic story for 
you, dear reader. And, certainly, he would never 
have told me what my greedy ears feasted on that 
very evening, when all in the house were sleeping, 
as we thought. 

“ My dear father, if it will not pain you,” I said, 
will you tell me if there is any peculiar significance 
in the adoption of the motto, Spemnza, by your an- 
cestors ? ” 

“ No ; I think it was chosen as a mere distinction 
of Christian hope in immortality beyond the grave, 
as all who came out of the, darkness of unbelief 
adopted some symbol of faith in God.” 

“ You do not know who first used the motto in 
your family ? ” 

“ No ; but I have often wished to discover some 
clew to its origin with the De Stalbergs ; and have 
wasted considerable precious time in vain search 
among the family papers and relics.” 

“ Is it on anything besides prayer-books, Bibles, 
and this ring ? ” I asked, half afraid to mention the 
last thing in my list, though it was just the one I 
was solely interested in at that moment. 

“And your mother’s monument.” 

This was said, not as if to remind me of some- 


68 


STRIFE. 


thing forgotten, but to encourage me to unburden 
my mind of any thought I might have conceived 
regarding the act of transcribing the motto on a 
monument, that might be considered too sacred for 
fanciful or commonplace inscriptions. 

“ I intended, Minnette, to tell you the peculiar 
circumstance of the inscribing of the motto on your 
mother’s monument, but not yet. Now, however, I 
see you would not be satisfied to wait, and I will 
explain my reasons for an act scarcely within the 
simple customary limits of our attention to the mere 
remains of our blessed ones. 

‘‘The very day your mother arrived at Immergrlin 
after our journey, she took that ring — her wedding- 
ring — and this engagement-ring that is attached to 
my guard-chain, from her finger, and, reading the 
inscription in each, remarked: ‘ I wish that which- 
ever of us shall first be laid in the grave might wear 
this wedding-ring; and the one remaining might 
wear the engagement-ring. They bear the same 
motto, expressive of our immortal hope, and it would 
seem like a sort of tie between the living and the 
dead for each to retain one of these golden circlets, 
expressive of eternity, with the inscription, that 
adds to their symbolic interest and significance.’ 

“At the time of your mother’s death, you know 
how painfully weak I became, and you can under- 
stand the grief it was to me, when, the first day of my 
recovery from entire prostration, I discovered that the 
only request your mother had made regarding her 
burial was unfulfilled ! I confided my distress to Dr. 


STRIFE. 


69 


Leon. He found both the rings, that had been 
placed in your mother’s casket by her own hands. 

“ My sorrow was so extreme, that, in my excite- 
ment, I would have ordered the grave to be opened, 
and the request complied with even then. But the 
doctor’s resolution prevented that unreasonable ex- 
pedient, and the inscription on the monument was 
suggested. Of course, I felt the wisdom of that 
alternative, and immediately the order was given 
and executed.” 

When my father concluded this account, of what, 
to my mind, was the climax of a mysterious asso- 
ciation of some hidden interests connecting the 
spiritual ministries of my mother with some mis- 
sion which I was to perform, or cause to be per- 
formed, we were perfectly silent for several minutes. 
I was too amazed to speak ! 

Was it really music that I heard, in the sound that 
seemed to fall on my ears — was it an earthly voice, 
or had the gift of hearing been vouchsafed? 

My father heard it. He looked startled for a 
moment, and then said : 

Listen, my child: that must be Mademoiselle 
Beaumont’s voice. She is singing an evening 
hymn; it is an old Moravian custom. I recognize 
it. It was your mother’s favorite, and she requested 
the choir to sing it for her when the last sacrament 
was administered to her ! ” 

He opened the door, and we went to my cham- 
ber door, directly opposite Father Beaumont’s 
room. 


70 


STRIFE. 


I never felt such emotion as that night awakened 
• — not in all the eventful course of my life that fol- 
lowed it. As we approached nearer, the voice, mel- 
low, subdued, and with a thrilling pathos, touched 
our hearts with a stirring sympathy. The words we 
could distinctly hear were Addison’s: 

When nature fails, and day and night 
Divide Thy works no more ; 

My ever-grateful heart, O Lord, 

Thy mercy shall adore. 

Through all eternity to Thee 
A joyful song I ’ll raise: 

But oh ! eternity ’s too short 
To utter all Thy praise. 

When the hymn was ended, my father kissed my 
forehead, and left me without a word. 

I “sobbed myself to sleep.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


‘‘asleep.” 

I HAD slept but one hour, I think, when I became 
conscious of a movement and cautious stepping 
in my sister’s room, adjoining mine. Hastily rising, 
I opened a communicating door, noiselessly, and 
discovered Leoni dressing rapidly, and Nannine al- 
ready dressed, standing beside some one at the fire, 
holding a vial and cup, from which, by the odor that 
pervaded the room, I judged she had been adminis- 
tering a dose of ether. 

“Who is ill?” I asked, entering at once. Leoni 
came hurriedly toward my door, and I saw she was 
fearfully agitated, as she motioned me to re-enter 
my own room, and following me, closed the door. 

“Sister, a strange providence has visited our 
house: Father Beaumont is dead!” 

“Dead!” Awful announcement, and at mid- 
night! 

I had never seen death. My last recollection of 
my mother was pleasant: a smile, such as lingers in 
a mother’s eyes after the “good-night” kiss. 

And now, for the first time, I realized that death 
and I were in the same house. How quietly he had 
entered ! Had there been a struggle with his vic- 

71 


72 


STRIFE. 


tim ? Would I see a white face distorted with the 
agony that'wrenches soul from body ? 

He ‘fell asleep,’ Mademoiselle told our father, 
very calmly,” said Leoni. 

“ He requested her to sing the evening hymn, 
that she had not sung since they left their home in 
America. When it was ended, he talked with her 
about his plans for the accomplishment of the mis- 
sion they had undertaken; and when Mademoiselle 
finally turned to leave the room, he recalled her, and 
told her ‘he had just received a message from the 
Lord ! ’ 

“Alarmed at his expression, and thinking his 
mind was wandering. Mademoiselle told him she 
would call assistance if he was ill. ‘ No, my daugh- 
ter,’ he replied, ‘ if you have no fear of the heav'enly 
messenger, stay ; do not bring any one. I am per- 
fectly calm, and only falling asleep.’ 

“ Mademoiselle, scarcely knowing what she did, 
knelt at the bedside, and burst into tears and sobs. 
Our father, who felt anxious to know they were 
sleeping before he retired, entering their sitting- 
room, heard Father Beaumont say : 

“‘Thy blessing, O Lord, I pray Thee, rest upon 
this house, and with my child, when Thou receivest 
my spirit ! ’ 

“ The next moment he was dead ; and our father 
found Mademoiselle fainting beside the bed.” 

When Leoni left my room, Nannine came and 
assisted me to put on some warm clothing, and soon 
— I was too bewildered to note the length of time — 


STRIFE. 73 

my father came for me and led me to the awful 
presence ! 

How calmly he slept ! I felt no terror in that 
peaceful presence. Surely he had “ only fallen 
asleep.” The closed eyes, the mouth composed and 
almost smiling as with the parting benediction, the 
white hands clasped on the still breast, the marble 
brow whiter even than the white hair and beard, 
were all one picture of repose, rest — perfect rest! 

“ Oh, my father 1 oh, my father ! ” It was a hu- 
man cry, from a heart torn with its first anguish I — 
such a cry as that which caused tears to spring un- 
bidden to the eyes of the Redeemer, when Mary’s 
woe found its plaintive utterance, “ Lord, if thou 
hadst been here, my brother had not died!” BuL 
alas ! our human compassion could not, like the di- 
vine, restore what was lost. We left the stricken 
one alone with her grief, till only low moans escaped 
wearily at intervals ; and then Dr. Leon, who had 
been summoned, led the poor, lonely mourner away 
from her dead. 

Madame and Ethel both came over to the castle, 
and remained with us till the morning dawned ; and 
the shadows, other than those that usually come 
with the night, departed with it. 

The only paper found, containing the handwrit- 
ing of Father Beaumont — in a wallet that he always 
carried about his person, and placed under his pillow 
at night — was one sheet of thin paper, much worn 
and blotted with tears. I do not think this prayer, 
contained in the fervent breathings of a Christian 
7 


74 


STRIFE. 


poet, has ever been published. If it has, and the 
reader recognizes the initials subscribed, I trust also 
he has the remembrance of their author, whose every 
word was intended to bless ! 

I will give as I read them, the contents of the 
paper. 

“ From my dear brother in Christ, Wm. H 

V y , I received this prayer, written for my 

comfortable communion with my God, in my hours 
of depression, at B , December, i8 — . 

F. C. Beaumont.” 


A PRAYER. 

0 Thou who reign’st enthroned on high, 
My Friend most dear and ever nigh, 

My Father! deign to lend an ear — 
And smile away this starting tear ! 

’T is wrong, perhaps, in helpless me 
To ponder on futurity. 

Still pardon, Lord, the glist’ning eye, 
The throbbing heart, the bursting sigh, 
That mourns not over past distress, 

P or yet Thy hand ne’er ceased to bless. 
Nor lurks there any present woe, 

That bids reluctant tears to flow ; 

Nor latent ills I ought to weep. 

That in the future’s bosom sleep. 

But when I stretch my aching sight 
Across that path of dubious night 
Which yet my feeble steps must tread 
Before my race is perfected ; 

1 tremble f lest from Thee I stray ^ 

And all my hopes should die away ; 
When of Thy firm support bereft. 

To my own strength and wisdom left, 


STRIFE. 


75 


V Uncomforted by faith or prayer, 

I ’d fall a victim to despair. 

’T is this, O Lord, provokes my fear, 

; ’Tis this calls forth the suppliant tear. 

' My God, thy helpless child preserve ; 

. From Thee, oh, never let me swerve ! 

f Thus, thus I shall be truly blest. 

In grief and joy, in toil and rest. 

; Ah ! then am I but wholly Thine, 

Is heavenly resignation mine, 

'v Should storms arise at Thy command. 

The firmer I shall grasp Thy hand. 

As long as such Thy sacred will, 

{ My present duties I ’ll fulfil ; 

And learn that patience, Lord, from Thee, 

. Which Thou dost daily show to me. 

Or should’st Thou call me to proclaim 
To some poor flock thy saving name. 

Nor poverty, nor scorn, nor hate 
I ’ Shall render me disconsolate. 

Condemn’d and slighted by mankind. 

May I in Thee a Patron find ! 

Or should’st thou send me o’er the wave 
To shores which other billows lave. 

Though whirl’d by storms, the angry tide 
In yawning gUlfs should open wide. 

Or lash the skies to overwhelm — 

May I but know Thee at the helm ! 

Be Thou my stay in life and death. 

And oh, receive my dying breath ! 

Whate’er Thy wisdom shall ordain. 

May I but ever Thine remain. 

For this alone I weep and sigh. 

And how could’st Thou this boon deny ? 

With Thee, life's troubles I can brave. 

With Thee, I’ll triumph o’er the grave ! 

So, the fervent effectual prayer of a righteous 
man ” had availed to bless in life and death the 
friend now “ sleeping in Jesus.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


MADEMOISELLE BEAUMONT. 



O avoid the charge of inconsistency in my nar- 


J- ration of the history of the noble woman who 
bravely resolved to take up the burden laid down by 
her father, and bear it till the same “ message from 
the Lord ” should release her from the self-imposed 
obligation, I must explain how, though a wayfareVy 
Mademoiselle Beaumont was not dependent on char- 
ity — how, with an inheritance equal in pecuniary 
importance to my own, she was yet poor — “poor in 
spirit,” sacrificing every earthly advantage for one 
holy purpose. Her sacrifice was an atonement. Who 
had sinned ? How could so much as an ample for- 
tune be required, except in restitution for a great 
wrong? And who had been wronged? Who had 
committed the wrong? 

At first, when the funeral rites were over, Made- 
moiselle Beaumont seemed bewildered — as we see 
great natures after terrible shocks. They look for 
another stroke to follow the blow that has sent their 
world whirling away from them, running from under 
their slipping feet — their great purpose, their strong- 
est hold on life wrenched from their grasp ! 

To aid in restoring her from her unsettled condi- 


STRIFE. 


77 


tion of mind, Dr. Leon resorted to a method that 
might be regarded strange by some. He confined 
Mademoiselle to my sick-chamber. A low nervous 
fever followed the excitement through which I had 
passed, and, in my delirium, I mistook the gentle 
hands and soothing voice that calmed my frenzy for 
my mother’s. 

When I recognized who it was that administered 
to my restless demands, I grew uneasy at the absence 
of my “second mother,” Madame Leon, and my good 
nurse, Nannine. But when I was assured that they 
were only yielding their office — as well as my sister 
— to a heart that needed this draught on its sympathy 
to prove that it was yet rich with the attributes of 
divine tenderness, I realized the first suggestion in 
my mother’s sentence : “ Till this is accomplished, 
necessity forbids you to rest.” By being patient and 
sympathizing, I could assist this lonely mourner to 
prepare for the renewal of her holy purpose. 

What a rich experience was my convalescence 
with the companionship of Mademoiselle Beaumont! 
What the world calls friendship is a mystery to me 
— there is so much comfort and apparent joy in it 
that will not bear the trial of circumstance. Instead 
of saying, “ Circumstances alter cases,” say. Circum- 
stance alters friendship, and one will perceive my 
drift. But let me repeat a curious conversation into 
which Mademoiselle and I meandered one day. It 
was three weeks after Father Beaumont had been 
placed in our little cemetery. How distinctly I re- 
call the solemn tones of the mournful trombones in 
7 * 


78 


STRIFE. 


the church tower, when they announced to the peo- 
ple in the valley that a soul had taken its flight from 
our little congregation on earth to enter the great 
temple above, and called for a reverential “ Praise 
God” for the light He had vouchsafed to His ser- 
vant. It is a beautiful Moravian custom, and I fancy 
the “ Well done, good and faithful servant, enter 
thou into the joy of thy Lord,” must sound more 
glorious when it is mingled with the praise borne on 
that sacred music to heavenly listeners, from the 
hearts that follow their redeemed brother with a 
grateful song. And for this joy in the happiness 
of a soul, the Moravians wear no mourning. With 
them, death is not, as with the heathen, “ the priva- 
tion of life.” It is a promotion to a higher life, and 
the white pall that covers the coffin of their deceased 
is emblematic of the purity of that perfect Light ! 

Mademoiselle had told my father her history, and 
her father’s object in his journeying on the arduous 
path marked out for himself. She had been careful 
to guard her confession with palliative considera- 
tions for the sinning one whose error demanded 
atonement; and the instructions she wrote for my 
father — a will legally prepared for the execution of 
her purpose by my father’s direction, should death 
prevent her fulfilment of it — was sealed, and the 
names of the guilty ones not spoken. 

But when Atropos, the fatal sister, severed the 
thread that united Mademoiselle Beaumont and her 
father in one sacred bond of duty, did Lachesis, her 
wary sister, twirl her spindle, and, seizing the feeblest 


STRIFE. 79 

life that was near the broken thread, weave in my 
destiny with one so much more reliable ? 

We will see. 

Dr. Leon had given free permission for as much 
conversation as I chose to enjoy; and had privately 
urged me “not to let my intuitive aversion to im- 
pertinent curiosity lead me to the extreme of re- 
serve, that would, perhaps, prevent that free expres- 
sion of whatever might oppress the bruised heart 
of our new friend; and be a diversion for my own 
thoughts — not invariably profitable.” 

For Mademoiselle, his system worked perfectly 
well. For me — possessed of a theory that Dr. 
Leon could not, with all his insight into my 
“cranks,” conceive of — the experiment brought 
strange results, at least not desirable in the opinion 
of every one. 

I was sitting on a lounge drawn before the grate- 
fire in Leoni’s room, while my own was opened for 
ventilation; and fearing Mademoiselle was weary, 
as she had supported me in her arms, my head 
resting on her shoulder, I moved to my pillow, say- 
ing: “I must not weary you. Mademoiselle: you 
beguile me into a selfish forgetfulness of the possi- 
bility of your becoming fatigued.” 

“ My little friend,” she replied, deprecating my self- 
accusation, with her heart in every tone and gesture, 
“you make me feel just sixty pounds lighter — I 
suppose that is your weight — when you impose the 
mighty burden on me. There is more magnetism 
in this little frame,” she said, losing the half lively 


8o 


STRIFE. 


expression of countenance for a reflective one again 
— “than I could have believed. You really possess 
an influence over me, that I have no inclination to 
resist. Your presence alone calms and rests me. 
You ask me no questions, and yet, in every word I 
speak to you, I seem to respond to some inquiry 
that I am conscious your kind interest in me ex- 
presses. You ask no confidence, and yet I invol- 
untarily yield it.” 

I was puzzled to answer that mere expression of 
my own settled conviction. Mademoiselle had a 
powerful capacity for suffering; and yet she ac- 
knowledged my power to tranquillize her grief The 
secret that had racked my brain into fever, I had 
the strength to hold in my own possession; and if I 
had chosen, I could, by revealing my fearful im- 
pressions left by the dream, have startled Made- 
moiselle Beaumont into — what? A belief, perhaps, 
in my own new faith. But I would not interfere, 
by a wanton betrayal of my mother’s trust, with the 
purposes of Providence. So I felt then. 

Assuring Mademoiselle that the pleasure of our 
intercourse was reciprocal, I added, “I shall, by 
way of deserving your insinuated charge of in- 
quisitiveness, ask for the history of the medal you 
possess, with our family motto. But you need not 
tell me, and, indeed, I would rather you would not, 
unless you can find some pleasure yourself in the 
subject.” 

“I have been on the point of mentioning it several 
times,” she replied, “ and refrained, not from any 


STRIFE. 


8l 


reluctance of my own ; for when I am alone with 
you, I can reflect without excitement on the scenes 
of my life, that have been passed in perfect harmony 
with that dear father who has left me to finish my 
journey alone.” 

Pausing a moment as if to arrange her recollec- 
tions into a smooth narrative, Mademoiselle suddenly 
glanced at me, and a look of perplexity overspread 
her countenance. 

“ I cannot talk with you,” she said, “ as I do to 
others. I forget my reserve, and it seems unreason- 
able that I should make your heart, so youthful in 
experience, the receptacle of my confidences.” 

“ It does not seem at all strange to me,” I replied. 
“ Ethel is the only young friend I have, and Madame 
and Dr. Leon have no reserves in our presence, 
when they meet in consultation with my father, no 
matter what the subject may be. And I should not 
be content with half measures. Besides, you oc- 
cupy a good share of my sympathies, and you need 
not fear my heart will be overburdened with all the 
confidence you choose to intrust to its keeping.” 

The light of a smile, nearer to mirth than anything 
I had seen since Father Beaumont’s death, in Made- 
moiselle’s eyes, hovered there a moment, and her 
voice was natural and almost cheery again as she 
exclaimed : 

“ Well, you are a most singular child ! You amaze 
me sometimes with that weird expression and orac- 
ular manner. I am glad you are to have a change 
from this enticing old castle, that is converting your 
F 


82 


STRIFE. 


naturally sunny nature into the morbid gravity of a 
nun. A little friction with the elements of society, 
rougher than anything Immergrlin harbors, will do 
you no harm.” 

Ah, Mademoiselle Beaumont, you were no pro- 
phetess ! In the sacred seclusion of that old home, 
my childish heart throbbed with emotions such as 
the great world can never inspire ; and when I left 
its hallowed influence, dreaming my father’s protec- 
tion would make my pilgrimage a joyful one along 
the highways of life, and conduct me safely back to 
that rest again, where was my “ gift of sight ” ? Mer- 
cifully wanting ! 

Reminding me that Father Beaumont had con- 
cluded his account of himself with his joyful meeting 
with General Beaumont;- his father, in the New York 
harbor, after a stormy voyage, Mademoiselle con- 
tinued : 

“ Minnette, guard as a sacred trust the names I 
shall mention to you, and never let any one through 
this confidence use them injuriously, consciously or 
unconsciously ! 

“You remember my father stated that my uncle, 
Emil Beaumont, remained at the Monastery of St. 
Jerome, resolved on a monastic seclusion, when my 
father, Frederick Beaumont, left Lorraine to join my 
grandfather. General Beaumont. My grandfather, 
being a Roman Catholic, submitted to this unex- 
pected vocation of his eldest son without remon- 
strance, though it grieved him more than he chose to 
confess, as his private journal betrayed after his death. 


STRIFE. 


83 

“ Grateful to the Polish nobleman who kindly 
cared for his younger son during their voyage, my 
grandfather urged the count to accompany him to 
his home in Havana. But to the soldier the attrac- 
tions of warfare proved more enticing than friendly 
invitations, and my grandfather parted with Count 
Pulawski to sail for Havana ; while the latter pro- 
ceeded to present his credentials to the commanders 
of the American forces. 

“ My father was not permitted to attend the schools 
in Havana, or to be separated in any way from my 
grandfather, who devoted his whole attention to the 
only being whose affection he could claim. He was 
not disappointed in the result. With a heart over- 
flowing with kindly impulses, and a mind justifying 
his father’s ambitious hopes, my father developed, 
in his rapid progress in education, the capacity for 
large schemes and benevolent designs, correspond- 
ing with the tastes his father had employed so bene- 
ficially in the service of Stanislaus. 

On an estate, whose slave-quarter alone covered 
an area of an equal extent with some European 
towns, there was scope for the employment of a 
genius for civil architecture, and my grandfather, 
gratified by the improvements that made his estate 
famous on the island, relinquished the whole care 
of it to my father when he was but seventeen 
years old. There were two persons who strongly 
opposed the latter proceeding. The confessor, who 
resided with my grandfather, and the steward who 
had hitherto been partially intrusted with the ex- 


84 


STRIFE. 


penses of the estate, which my father’s comprehen- 
sive economy would not admit any longer. Acting 
on the principle that Stanislaus had maintained with 
my grandfather, he refused to revoke his full, free 
delivery of the entire responsibility to his son Fred- 
erick, and further offended the discontented priest 
by a formal testament, bequeathing the bulk of his 
large fortune to my father, providing a comfortable 
annuity for his confessor and steward, and leaving 
my uncle Emil a mere stipendiary allowance. 

“ It will be remembered that the Abbe de I’Etoile 
recommended my grandfather to enter the West 
India house — in the trade that met with a termina- 
tion so disastrous to the Jesuits — artfully conceal- 
ing his individual interest in the speculation. And 
there was ground for the suspition General Beau- 
mont entertained, that the abbe was the cause of 
Emil’s bias toward a monastic life, knowing the 
benefits that had accrued to my grandfather through 
his own honesty and prudence in the transaction 
that might have ruined a careless or less honorable 
man. -But if the abbe hoped to gain any benefit 
through the detention of my uncle at the monastery, 
he was greatly deceived in my grandfather’s reso- 
lute character. 

“ In reply to a letter from Emil, announcing his 
appointment as chaplain and confessor to the family 
of the young Count de Meffray, nephew to the Abbe 
de I’Etoile, ^for which renunciation of individual 
preference for the privacy of the cloister, he was to 
succeed to the prelacy of the Abbe de I’Etoile ! ’ 
my grandfather promptly replied : 


STRIFE. 


85 

“ * While I am better satisfied with this change in 
your plans to employ your spiritual calling in a 
broader measure than a cloister life can possibly 
admit, I could wish that before you decided on 
accepting clerical orders, you had been permitted to 
test the reliability of your intentions by a visit to 
me. You might, perhaps, have found noble use for 
your spiritual inclinations in administering to the 
comfort of the slaves belonging to my estate, and in 
promoting the interests of many Catholic institutions 
on our islands worthy of your assistance. But you 
have chosen a service that I regard the most respon- 
sible in the gift of the Church. On your influence may 
depend the eternal welfare of a noble family, as well 
as the honor of their individual members in the pres- 
ent life. In the performance of this great trust, remem- 
ber first the honor of Him who calls you to your 
office of spiritual adviser, the honor of the noble 
count who intrusts you with the secrets of his house, 
your own honor as a servant of God and man, and 
the honorable name I have given you as a birth- 
right, that has never yet been stained with the taint 
of dishonesty, either in matters concerning the ser- 
vice of our family to our king, our Church, or in any 
of our transactions with men. 

“‘The compensation allowed by the generous mas- 
ter you will serve makes the sum I have bequeathed 
you very trifling in comparison ; but trusting that 
your motives for undertaking so sacred a mission 
were of the purest religious character, I am not dis- 
posed to change my will, intending, as when I made 
8 


86 


STRIFE. 


it, only to place an almsgiving at your disposal, to be 
continued by your brother Frederick, should he sur- 
vive you, as you may designate.’ ” 

Mademoiselle sat painfully abstracted, with the 
open letter in her hand, till I ventured, after a rea- 
sonable pause, to ask : • 

“ Mademoiselle, is your uncle living still ? ” 

A sigh escaped her, as if some doubt of her right 
to throw off more of the weight that oppressed her 
had been removed by my voice, and she replied : 

“ My mission is to find him, and undo his entangled 
work : he forgot the law of his fathers, and the pun- 
ishment of his own remorse is greater than he can 
bear.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE MEDAL. 

D r. LfiON interrupted the story, in which I had 
become intensely interested as it proceeded; 
and I was not sorry when Nannine entered to say 
my own room was sufficiently warmed, after the air- 
ing she had given it, for me to return to it ; and my 
father came to invite the doctor to his sitting-room, 
at the same time. 

“ Mademoiselle Beaumont,*’ said the doctor, as he 
Was leaving us, “ you cannot fail to decide on accept- 
ing the baron’s invitation to travel with Leoni and 
Minnette, at least as far as Naples, when you see the 
evidences of your good influence over one of the 
party,” looking askance at me. 

“You are all kindly considerate,” she replied; 
“ but I have already delayed longer than I should 
under any other circumstances. Now that Minnette 
is mending so decidedly, I must in a few days be on 
my way again ; and if Providence favors my under- 
taking, I will return when it is accomplished, and 
make my residence in this neighborhood, where, 
though I have suffered my deepest sorrow, I have 
tasted the sweetest consolations of Christian fellowr 
ship.” 


87 


88 


STRIFE. 


In this frank, unhesitating manner Mademoiselle 
Beaumont met every suggestion, and the feeling of 
confidence she inspired by it was irresistible. 

When we were once more alone she finished her 
story : , - . . 

“ My grandfather and the Abbe de I’Etoile died 
within three months of the same year that my father 
married. A Protestant lady coming into a Catholic 
household makes sometimes trying difficulties. But 
the liberality of my father’s religious views prevented ^ 
embarrassments that otherwise could not have failed 
to disturb the tranquillity of their union. 

“ My mother found no difficulty in persuading my 
father to dispense with the services of his confessor 
in the family. Like most men, even in the Catholic 
Church, my father felt a natural repugnance to a rule 
that deprives the family institution of its most sacred 
privilege, the keeping of its own secrets, for which 
nothing under heaven can be so immaculate as to 
guard against its own* advantage, when unlimited 
control, as in the case of a private chaplath, is con- V 
fided with the secret. 

“ I was the only child born of this marriage, and, 
like yourself, I was left motherless at an age too 
early to realize the extent of my loss. 

“ My uncle Emil had never written to Havana in 
reply to my grandfather’s letter regarding his ap- 
pointment in Count de Meffray’s family, and there 
had not been any communication between my father 
and my uncle up to the time of my mother’s death. 

“ Shortly after that great affliction to my father — 


STRIFE. 


89 

who had adopted Protestant principles so far that 
his confessor, after useless remonstrances, refused 
him the rite of communion with the Church — my 
father was summoned to a meeting of landholders 
and stewards, who were indignantly resisting the 
interference of some few charitable proprietors on 
behalf of several Moravian missionaries, who had 
actually sold their rights as freemen to the overseers 
of several estates, and worked like common laborers, 
only to be enabled to preach salvation to the poor 
creatures whose souls had not been worth the effort 
to save them, in the estimation of many of their 
masters. 

“ My father’s promptness and energy saved the 
unfortunate missionaries a painful imprisonment; 
and their zeal and intelligence manifested in the ig- 
noble service they had performed in the name of 
the Great Master, and the effect on the minds of 
hundreds of slaves already taught to read for their 
own satisfaction the chapters from the Word and 
Moravian hymns distributed among them — these 
proofs of their sincerity induced my father to offer 
them the shelter that his own estate could afford them 
from the persecution of the enraged Papists. My 
father was amazed at the discoveries he continually 
made of the enlightenment of these simple-hearted 
men, in matters of which not only the laity, but 
many of the clergy of his own Church were pro- 
foundly ignorant. Their doctrine, so simple, so free 
from the dogmatism of ' the Fathers,’ relying for its 
authority on one Father alone, took hold of the 
S* 


90 


STRIFE. 


strong nature of my father, and he became com* 
pletely converted to the Moravian faith. 

“ I have already described our home, the town 
that sprang from the settlement founded by those 
missionaries on the lands my father gave them from 
his own estate ; and you know of the educational 
institutions, the colleges, boarding schools, and town 
schools where hundreds of the youth of the States 
are educated. 

“ Knowing all this, you can appreciate the noble- 
ness of my father’s sacrifice in leaving the interests 
of a lifetime to atone, if possible, for the evil of a 
brother that clouded his last days, and filled his 
generous heart with unutterable anguish. 

“ I cannot speak with calmness of the breaking 
up of our home, our journey to B , the Mora- 

vian town in the States, where Pulawski, my father’s 
friend, had visited and written letters of enthusiastic 
praise of all he witnessed of the beauty of the valley, 
which he called the ‘ Switzerland of America.’ And 
there my father met an old bishop who had known 
my mother in her girlhood. He assured my father 
of a circumstance that greatly astonished him. Sev- 
eral months after the date of my mother’s marriage, 
the bishop had been requested to give information 
to a religious historical society in Lorraine, of a 
certain medal that had been stamped with the pass- 
word of the Carbonari, and used by a succession of 
Waldensian missionaries in their journeyings through 
the haunts of the Carbonari in Italy. 

** The letter containing the request was written by 


STRIFE. 


91 


the Countess de Mefifray, wife to the nobleman in 
whose house my uncle Emil was acting as chaplain. 
She stated that, as a Protestant, a * descendant of 
the Waldensians,’ she was * interested in the discovery 
of a relic, that her family could claim for the partic- 
ular services they had given to the Protestant cause,’ 
and that ^an irresponsible member of the society 
had given the medal to a family of Protestants in 
America’ — giving their name — which the bishop 
had just traced to my mother’s family. My father 
immediately despatched a letter of inquiry to my 
mother’s brother at Havana, to which he replied that 
* the medal had been found among my mother’s pa- 
pers, and had been given to him by my father after 
her death, among papers to be delivered to a friend 
who was to have taken the medal to Europe ; and 
as there were explicit directions for its return to the 
Countess de Meffray, who appeared to have corre- 
sponded with my mother regarding it, it had been 
forwarded to Lorraine about one year before we had 
left Havana.’ 

“ My mother’s brother did not know that news 
of the death of the countess had prevented my 
mother’s fulfilling her intentions regarding the 
medal, and my uncle Emil, through whom the cor- 
respondence was opened, had not informed my 
father of the count’s death several years after the 
countess, until he confessed the wrong that we had 
left our home to repair. 

When we arrived at Lorraine, this medal was 
enclosed in a note for my father, instructing him 


92 


STRIFE. 


to carry it, if he followed his brother Emil to the 
Abruzzi, or give it to his messenger, so there could 
be no doubt of the authority of any one appearing 
for the assistance of my uncle Emil, in Italy ; and 
the motto, he stated, would serve as a pass-word 
with any of the mountain gypsies or brigands, should 
my father encounter them.” 

Taking the medal from her pocket. Mademoiselle 
was in danger of another relapse into that abstrac- 
tion that was contrary to my impatient desire to 
hear all the story; and I resorted to an expedient 
that nearly proved fatal to my further knowledge of 
the tantalizing little talisman, that with its one word 
— Hope — seemed by some inherent quality to have 
effected miraculous conversions wherever it had been 
retained. 

Mademoiselle,” I said, closely watching the 
effect of my suggestion, ” though your father was 
unconscious of the existence even of that medal, it 
was in his house when he acceded to the wishes of 
a Protestant wife, when he received the Moravian 
missionaries, and when he founded a Moravian set- 
tlement; it was also in your uncle’s possession when 
he resolved to make reparation for a great wrong, 
as you tell me ; and it was in your possession when 
you were led by a good Providence to enter our 
house, where the same motto belongs, and find 
friends of your own sect.” 

I did not add to my evidence, And over your 
father’s grave the shadow of my mother’s monu- 
ment falls, inscribed with the same motto ! ” 

” Mademoiselle,” I said, '"you disclaim any pecu- 


STRIFE. 93 

liar power in that medal, but suppose there should 
exist some talismanic — ” 

“ I forbid any such Oriental fancies regarding this 
harmless piece of metal,” Mademoiselle exclaimed. 
“ I have no taste for the marvellous, and the realities 
of life are too serious to admit of my indulgence in 
that propensity to fable that you possess.” 

Seeing me smile at my success, in at least rousing 
her from the threatened abstraction. Mademoiselle 
continued to lecture me. 

” I have no doubt,” she said, that your busy 
brains could invent fables as readily as a Chinese 
priest. What an insinuation! As if this medal was 
a sort of seal to some mysterious compact that had 
concluded with some awful incantation I Evidently 
it is merely a symbol used by some leader of the 
Masonic orders, that opposed all oppressive powers 
in the early days of Protestantism, and who are now 
only outlaws, who retain the signs, but none of the 
spirit of the original bands. 

” I shall warn the Baron de Stalberg to avoid 
China, Persia, and Egypt in his travels, and hereafter 
I will keep my stories to myself.” Saying this, 
Mademoiselle pretended she was going out of my 
room. But I heard the remainder of the story before 
she left me. 

“A young heiress born to the Count de Meffray 
had been abducted at her birth, in order to secure 
her inheritance for the benefit of the Abbey of St. 
Jerome; and after a Catholic education — which her 
Protestant mother would have prevented — she was 


94 


STRIFE. 


to be elected abbess of a convent, as an equivalent 
for the wrong of depriving her of a birthright. As 
she had been reported dead by the physician to the 
countess, no one but Emil Beaumont and his accom- 
plice knew of her existence — as the Cpuntess de 
Meffray at least ; and her brother, who inherited his 
father’s Italian lands and title, was called the Count 
de Meffray, and under the guardianship of an uncle, 
his mother’s brother, was now receiving his last 
year’s collegiate education in Rome. Emil Beau- 
mont, overwhelmed with remorse, had renounced 
the orders with which he had been invested, and 
shutting himself in a half- ruined hospice in the 
Abruzzi, was watching over the daughter of his 
benefactors, who had attained her sixteenth year in 
ignorance of her parentage. She was accomplished 
in every branch of learning taught in the Italian 
schools. Emil Beaumont had not written to his 
brother. Father Beaumont, till the money that had 
been invested from the young countess’s revenues 
for the abbey was lost in a speculation, again at- 
tributed to the Jesuits, and Emil Beaumont’s small 
allowance was insufficient to support his victim in 
the manner befitting her rank, and that he had not 
the cruelty to deny her, since he repented of his 
deed. 

“ My uncle is near his last days, and cannot live 
more than a few years,” said Mademoiselle ; “ so 
when I place in his hands an order for a sum that 
will repay every dollar of the inheritance of the 
young countess, we have only to reconcile her 


STRIFE. 


95 


brother and uncle to an agreement to preserve my 
father’s name from dishonor, and restore the heiress 
to her rights.” 

And, dear reader, Mademoiselle Beaumont — who 
was, after all, the greatest victim to this terrible 
wrong — uttered no word of regret or reproach, 
though her act of restitution, now in her power to * 
withhold, left her with a bare support. 

It was far in the night when I fell asleep after that 
recital, and I awoke late the next morning. My 
sister and Nannine were in the room. 

‘‘Where is Mademoiselle Beaumont?” I asked, 
when she did not come, even after my morning meal 
was ended. 

The answer brought hot tears to my eyes. She 
was gone ! 

The snow had fallen again through the night. 
Mademoiselle’s foot-prints were traced to our chapel ; 
from there to her father's grave, and then they fol- 
lowed out into the highway, and were lost in the 
beaten paths. 

We could all recall her unusual earnestness when 
she bade us good night, and Leoni and I remembered 
a whispered blessing. 


CHAPTER X. 


AN UNFORTUNATE REMARK. 

S IX months had passed since we left Immergrlin, 
when we entered Rome one evening before sun- 
set, by the Porta del Popolo, after driving through 
the Villa Borghese. 

We purposed visiting the Convent of La Trinita 
de’ Monti, to hear vespers chanted by the sisters and 
their pupils. Taking the drive over the Pincio, we 
passed the Villa Medici just as the art students were 
coming down the steps of the French Academy. 

Giving orders for the carriage to be drawn aside 
from the drive near the wall on the edge of the de- 
clivity of the Pincio, my father remarked : 

“ It will be a half-hour before the service begins ; 
so we may as well enjoy the military band till then.” 

At that moment a group of students, throwing 
their mantles on the grass, seated themselves op- 
posite us, under the oaks of the Druid Grove that 
crowns the Pincio, and overlooks, as Mizpah over- 
looked the dead of her past, the ruins of old Rome. 
With the music, mingled sounds of laughter from the 
gardens of the Pincio, silvery notes from cascades 
falling through artificial grottos, and murmurs of 
the breeze that gently stirred the leaves of the grave 

96 


STRIFE. 


97 


old oaks. People from every known clime, dressed 
in endless variety of costume, stood in circles near 
the orchestral platform, or promenaded the flowery 
walks, or remained in their carriages, enjoying the 
scene as we did, withoQt the energy to participate. 

One of the group of students remained standing, 
his pale face flushed with pleasure, his dark eye 
kindling with emotion, as he looked away from the 
scene of joyous life around him to the wreck of 
art at our feet, in the great amphitheatre of earth 
bounded by her circle of seven hills. 

In hut or hamlet, the elegance of the young stran- 
ger who captivated my attention would have be- 
trayed his noble birth. His figure was slight and 
graceful, his movements were easy, and there was an 
expression of soul-light in his intellectual counte- 
nance that I could compare only to the transparency 
of a Greek vase, illuminated by a subdued light from 
within.^ Why did I persist in vain efforts to recall 
that face? I had never seen it; and yet it was fa- 
miliar. When the young nobleman spoke, there 
was a pathos in his voice that touched my heart 
with a strange sympathy I could not define. At his 
feet sat a dark yqpth, whose pure olive complexion 
and foreign-Spanish dialect denoted the aboriginal 
Mexican. Lighting a cigarette, and leisurely lifting 
his eyes to his companion’s face, he said : 

“ De Meffray, you seem to be preoccupied; are 
you still troubled because Amelia defied the inspect- 
ors in class to-day, or are your thoughts disquieted 
9 G 


STR IFE. 


98 

because of something beyond the appreciation of 
your fellow-mortals — students, I mean ? ” 

“ I never was less troubled than at this moment,” 
answered the youth who had been addressed by the 
name of the young countess whose fate had been in 
the hands of Emil Beaumont ! “ On the contrary,” 

-he continued, “ I was endeavoring to draw from the 
scene before us somewhat of the inspiration that 
glows in your designs, Romierez.” 

“ Your goddess is not Italy, De Meffray ; you will 
find Mars rather than Venus in her vales.” 

“Viva Italia !” cried three or four young disciples 
of the new Mazzinian school. 

“ ’St ! you are indiscreet,” muttered another. “Pa- 
triotism is cheap as any other sentiment. Besides, 
why should we begrime ourselves with mud ? If the 
pigs love their sty, let them wallow in it.” 

“ There speaks no Roman ! ” said Romierez, 
stretching out his arm, and touching the peak of 
the philosopher’s Hat. 

The little PTenchman, so rebuked, removed his 
hat, gave the peak a slight touch by way of readjust- 
ment, placed it on his head again, and, shrugging 
his shoulders, waited with a ludicrous expression for 
the burst of merriment to subside that his charac- 
teristic pantomime had called forth. 

Every word uttered by the students was borne to 
my ears by the light breeze blowing from the grove 
toward our carriage. Besides, my anxiety to learn 
more of one bearing the name of the young girl 
whose history had interested me so intensely, roused 


STRIFE. 99 

me to a keen perception of each character and ex- 
pression of that group of students. 

“ Listen, gentlemen,” the Frenchman began again. 
“ I have done with the subject of war; but a matter 
of friendship demands my interference on behalf of 
my countryman, the Count de Meffray ! ” 

My father, sister, and brother were occupied with 
the various objects around them, and seemed not to 
have caught the name repeated so often and increas- 
ing my interest with each repetition. 

“If you have a homily prepared that would bur- 
den you to keep it, I will do my best to listen, Ma- 
rigney,” answered his friend; “but I am not aware 
of the necessity for any advice from you.” 

“ I have too much regard for you to leave you 
to a morbid illness that you mistake, and may seri- 
ously magnify,” retorted Marigney. “ By exposing 
a wound one begins the cure. I am not deceived. 
Romierez was right ; you have lost your inspiration 
with your favorite model!” 

“Hold, Marigney! I like not your knife! You 
probe too deep, without finding your mark. I have 
no such sentiment toward Amelia as you ascribe to 
me; and let me beg, as a personal favor, that her 
name shall not be mentioned again in common with 
the models of the Academy. I shall remove my 
easel to the convent, and not expose her again to 
the accident of being mistaken for a member of the 
class. I was anxious to have Professor ’s opin- 

ion of the pose for my Anunciatta, and forgot it was 


lOO STRIF^. 

inspection-day. I shall not soon forgive myself for 
the blunder.” 

“ She was equal to the occasion,” said Romierez ; 
her eyes were magnificent when she turned on the 
president, as he ordered her not to leave the plat- 
form ; and Rachel could not have made such an 
exit ! ” 

De Meffray chafed under the infliction of these 
remarks, that he had no authority to forbid, and yet 
regarding an affair he would have held as exclusively 
his own. There was a warning as well as an appeal 
in his tones, when he said, looking at all the group : 

” I trust I will be able to prove your friendship in 
this matter, as I have shared your confidence hith- 
erto. When the proper time comes, I will satisfy 
you regarding my interest in Amelia. Till then, 
oblige me by not mentioning her name.” 

It would not be easy to describe the look of as- 
tonishment that was equally expressed by all his 
hearers. While they exchanged glances of mutual 
mystification, De Meffray appeared to have forgotten 
his remarks the moment they were uttered, and, with 
no perceptible effort, threw his whole soul into the 
scene before him. The momentary pallor that be- 
trayed his extreme annoyance at the subject so 
abruptly broached by his companions, and so readily 
dismissed by himself, was again succeeded by a flush 
of pleasure, as the young count looked eagerly on 
the wonderful effects of sunset in the varying hues 
of sky and atmosphere above and around him. The 
sun seemed to rest on Monte Mario, and through 


STRIFE. 


lOI 


the pink, blue, and golden canopies that veiled the 
orb from our sight, the earth was illumined with a 
tinted atmosphere through which the wilderness of 
Rome’s marble edifices, pillars, and balconies ap- 
peared beautiful as the crystal battlements described 
in Revelations. 

My soul went out in harmony with the powerful 
influences, that lifted the heart of De Meffray to a 
strain of enthusiasm evidently too great for expres- 
sion. 

The picture before us was so vast, so full of the 
history of the past, of present decay. The struggle 
of modern ambition over ancient ruin, distinguished 
by the fresh, snowy marble and modern gilding 
glistening beside the gray, crumbling temples, 
arches, towers, and monuments, whose difficult 
and profuse ornamentation revealed their mediaeval 
origin. 

That scene stirred the emotions of the Nero of lit- 
erature, who could sit on the pinnacle of Fame, ex- 
ulting over the flames he had fanned from the pas- 
sions of men’s hearts — to destroy their purity by a 
consuming power — and yet, in his better moments, 
weave the noblest fancies of this Mistress of the 
World — Rome — “The Niobe of nations, childless 
and crownless in her voiceless woe.” 

Leon broke the silence into which all of us — our 
own party and the students — had relapsed, awed 
by the grandeur of a sunset that called with vivid 
distinctness the recollection of Madame de Stael’s 
word - pictures, painted with a truth that I never 
9 * 


102 


STRIFE. 


realized till I saw them from the same spot. When, 
in the reflected light of evening, “ the spires, col- 
umns, and monuments, scattered all over Rome, ap- 
peared like an aerial city floating above the terres- 
trial city.” 

Sister ! ” exclaimed Leon ; and De Mefffay was 
attracted by his earnestness to listen to the conver- 
sation that followed, as innocent of any intentional 
rudeness as I had been in following the dialogue 
between his companions and himself. 

“ Sister, if the genii of Art should offer you a gift 
— a talent for the expression of your impressions 
of this glorious scene, what would you choose — 
painting, sculpture, or poetry?” 

” There are three gifts in your proposition,” I re- 
plied; “one for each of us. Let our father choose 
first, then Leoni, and I will take what is left.” 

My father, smiling at my air of mock modesty, 
replied, “ I am content to regard this scene without 
any greater power than that of appreciating it in 
itself as a poem of Nature and Art, and this view of 
it as the most sublime page in my book of life ! ” 
Leoni said, “ Painting rarely satisfies me ; the art 
is too limited in proportion to the labor of execution. 
Sculpture I like better, and then the gift must be 
rare ; for, to achieve a satisfactory result, one must 
have attained a degree of culture, or be possessed 
of an ideality so exalted, that with one gigantic 
effort one conceives and at the same moment pre- 
sents the emblem of its conception — a Miltonic or 
statuesque thought^ 


STRIFE. 


103 


“ So you leave to me poetry,” I answered ; “ a 
capricious, tyrannical genius, enslaving often where 
she gives her loftiest inspirations, rewarding the 
efforts of her victim with a morbid sensibility of 
wrong, even while the world is applauding her 
work.” 

“ There is no danger that such an ungracious 
party will be troubled by the genii,” said Leon, with 
an air of exasperation ; so I shall ask for myself all 
three gifts, with the power of an historian to use 
them aright. Looking at this accumulation of mon- 
uments, we are reminded that fame is perishable. 

I We know nothing of their architects, not even the 
I names of many of them. I regard their work as the 
simple landmarks of great eras in the world’s his- 
tory. The Pantheon marks the confines of pagan 
dominion. St. Peter’s is the climax of priestly pomp 
— at the expense of an impoverished laity — whose 
revolt marked the decline of papal power, and the 
beginning of a reformation. St. Angelo is a mauso- 
leum of the glory of conquest. Territory can no 
more be purchased at the price of human blood. 
Henceforth the catise of battle must be Liberty, the 
consequence Revenge! ” 

** My son, you should not let your feelings lead 
you to forget our surroundings,” said my father, in 
a low voice. And there was occasion for his warn- 
ing, as several of the students, excited by Leon’s 
remarks, had risen from the grass, and moved near 
the carriage to a seat on the wall, where they heard 
without losing a word he uttered. De Mefifray, 


104 


STRIFE. 


without moving from his position by one of the 
trees, was again pale with the sympathetic emotion 
that my brother had evidently occasioned. 

“As visitors,” continued my father, “we have no 
part in the struggles of Italy; and extravagant specu- 
lations rashly uttered, cannot aid those who have 
her cause in trust. Do not again, by allusion to 
this subject, mar our enjoyment of what is offered 
for our admiration and instruction, and place us in a 
false light with the authorities whose protection we 
enjoy.” 

My father had raised his voice for the last remark, 
and the effect was what he wished. 

The students moved on toward the Monte Piete, 
and we resumed the cheerful tone in which our con- 
versation had begun. 

The bell sounded for the Ave, and we arrived at 
the convent, the moment when De Meffray and his 
companions entered the door of the chapel. 


CHAPTER XI. 


AMELIA. 

A S in all churches connected with convents in 
Rome, where the sisters and their pupils take 
part in the public services, an iron grating separated 
the main altar and the tribunes encircling it from 
I the body of the Church of La Trinita di Monti. The 
! tribunes were built like heavy oaken chairs in the 
j linings of the chancel, and occupied by the Sisters 
! of Monte Piete, while their pupils, many of them 
' daughters of the nobility, were ranged in two lines 
across the chancel before the altar. As strangers 
I we were ushered to chairs immediately in front of 
the grating, and had a fair opportunity to observe 
the effect of seclusion on the young girls belonging 
to the convent school. Their faces were as pale and 
inanimate as the lawn veils they wore. In the re- 
sponse to the chant their tones were as dreary and 
monotonous as the dull, unbecoming uniform of the 
sisters. I gladly turned from them to the organ 
gallery, where a voice intoned, then chanted, trilled 
its own free notes, and then burst, like a soul disen- 
thralled, into a sacred melody, such as one might 
hear on approaching the heavenly city. 

loS 


io6 


STRIFE. 


Around us pressed an uncomfortable crowd of 
Italian, French, and English residents in Rome, and 
a promiscuous sprinkling of soldiers, beggars, and 
gypsies, the silken robes of a kneeling princess falling 
in neglected folds over the sandals of a stupid peas- 
ant — the latter as lost in her amazement at the 
scene before her as the princess was rapt in her 
devotions. 

Not far from us the students were standing, and 
I was thinking of their advantages in having for 
study contrasts that are offered nowhere but in 
Rome, when a low sob interrupted my thoughts. 

Following the direction from which the sound 
seemed to have come, I saw a young girl richly 
dressed in the costume of the Roman Contadini, 
kneeling before the grating, beside another Roman 
girl who had occupied the chair next to mine. Their 
dresses were of the same fine material — bright col- 
oring, harmoniously combined in the bordering of 
their cloth skirts and silken drapery, in elegant con- 
trast with their snowy-white garibaldi waists and 
flowing sleeves, their broad black braids half con- 
cealed under the square folds of white lawn, grace- 
fully pinned on the head with jewelled arrows. 

There was not the least difference in any part of 
their dress, and yet a glance was sufficient to decide 
one in pronouncing the girl next to me a peasant, 
the other a princess — by nature. 

I had seen many of the models who frequented 
the streets leading to the studios in Rome, with bright 
eyes, olive complexions, splendid teeth and hair, like 


STRIFE. 


107 


the girl next me, whom I should not have distin- 
guished from a crowd of them, except for the fresh- 
ness of her costume. But her companion ! A del- 
icate symmetrical form, complexion as pure as a 
lily, and a countenance quickly composed after the 
sob that escaped her had alarmed her into an as- 
sumed calm — expressing the suppressed feeling 
that I never saw in a human face before, and only 
once in a painting. It was the “Why hast Thou 
forsaken me ? “ of an Ecce Homo, by a Spanish 
master, whose name is lost. 

“Amelia, the count is here, he is studying the 
Volterra ! “ whispered her companion. 

Romierez, the Mexican, had not exaggerated, 
1 then. This was Amelia ! and her eyes were indeed 
I magnificent, as she turned to look at Count de 
i Mefiray. He stood, with his fellow-students, oppo- 
site the splendid painting by Volterra — “The De- 
I scent from the Cross” — and, oblivious of the crowd 
1 around him, or the ceremony of the service, his 
1 mind was absorbed in the mysteries of a genius 
I that rivalled Michael Angelo’s, his enjoyment inten- 
sified unconsciously by the sweet voice soaring in 
rich melody above the chanted accompaniment of 
the choir. 

Rapidly running through her prayers, the last 
bead in a cornelian and silver rosary slipped through 
the fingers of the whisperer, and, dropping the rosary 
into her pocket, she said : 

“ Come, Amelia ; I must see the count : he has 
not appointed the hour for to-morrow.” 


io8 


STRIFE. 


But her remark was unheeded. Her companion’s 
head was again bowed in grief, that agitated her 
whole frame as she vainly strove to repress her 
feelings. Rising with an impatient ejaculation, be- 
gun even while she bowed and crossed herself, the 
provident model went after the students, who had 
begun to move toward the door, leaving her com- 
panion still weeping. 

When the service concluded, all the students and 
the model had left the church, and I waited with 
more than ordinary interest the movements of Ame- 
lia, who I was convinced was the Amelia the stu- 
dent had referred to. An unnatural calm had suc- 
ceeded her great agitation; her hands tightly clasped, 
her eyes, veiled by the long lashes still glistening 
with tears, fixed on the marble pavement on which 
she was kneeling, her drooping attitude completing 
a graceful picture of simple devotion and penitence. 

My father had remained seated till the crowd 
passed out, and we were just rising to follow the 
last stragglers, as there was now an opportunity to 
get near the side chapels to view the altar paintings, 
when I saw the young Count de Meffray pushing his 
way back into the church. He was alone, and had 
evidently learned of Amelia’s having been present at 
the service, for he went directly to her side and stood 
, there. As she, unconscious of his presence, rose 
from her knees, inclined her head reverently toward 
the altar, and, with a dignity rarely seen in one so 
young as she, making the sign of the cross publicly, 
she turned and met the questioning look of De Mef- 
fray. 


STRIFE. 


109 


Oh, how beautiful she was ! Her face was radi- 
ant with a glad surprise when she encountered her 
friend so unexpectedly. I almost exclaimed with 
admiration when she seized the hand De Meffray 
held out to her with the innocent joy of a child. 

“You have forgiven me, and you have come to 
seek me ? “ she asked, eagerly. 

“ I was only pained for you, not angered on my 
own account,” was the manly reply. 

There was no excuse for me to linger, even if I 
could have permitted myself the enjoyment of their 
conversation that I had no right to hear. But be- 
fore we had reached the church door, Amelia and 
De Meffray went out by a side door communicating 
with the convent ; and for the first time in my life I 
felt a pang of that nameless feeling one has in seeing 
those who have inspired us with a deep, though in- 
definable interest, disappear from our presence, un- 
conscious of our sympathy — of our existence, per- 
haps. 

My father had dismissed our carriage when we 
arrived at the church, as we had only to descend the 
great stone stairway leading to the Piazza di Spagna, 
where our hotel was situated. As we passed down 
the steps, I observed on one of the platforms a figure 
I can recall as vividly now as it appeared then — its 
old wrinkled visage, the elfish locks escaping the 
bands of a crimson turban, and the crouching atti- 
tude beside a crumbling wall, returning to me like 
the vague beginning of a terrible dream, of which I 
am conscious, but powerless to define. 


10 


CHAPTER XII. 


DISCOVERIES. 


E had not left the breakfast-table the morning 



V V after our visit to La Trinita di Monti, when 
the Count Darree, an old classmate of my father’s, 
now resident in Rome and in high favor at the Vat- 
ican, sent in his card, with a request to be admitted 
informally, as he was in haste. My father intro- 
duced him at once to the breakfast-room, and offer- 
ing him his own place at table, gave Antonio a note 
to the banker’s, and dismissed him from the room ! 

My sister, not understanding such a singular ar- 
rangement on the part of my father, and attributing 
it to some unaccountable embarrassment, was about 
to summon another attendant, when my father re- 
quested her to be seated and hear what Count Dar- 
ree had to communicate. 

“ My good Baron de Stalberg,” he began, “ I wish 
you well out of Rome. Notwithstanding my repre- 
sentations of your honorable conduct in all circum- 
stances where your Protestant opinions have been 
called in question, a great deal of jealousy is mani- 
fested among the clergy, of the liberty you have 
been permitted in having access to the library of 


lO 


STRIFE. 


Ill 


the Vatican, and several other privileges they regard 
as unwarrantable, considering your religious senti- 
ments.” 

‘^You astonish me,” replied my father. had 
no idea that in gratifying my son’s passion for 
historical research among the manuscripts, charts, 
and old volumes of the Vatican library, I was asking 
any greater favor than that accorded as freely in 
Vienna, Venice, Florence, and wherever we have 
considered it worth while to look.” 

The truth of the matter is this, my friend: several 
of your enemies, who remember your embassy to 
Vienna, on a certain occasion when your modera- 
tion effected more for the Protestant cause than their 
violence could injure it, have been spying every 
action of yours since you entered Rome. And last 
evening, at a meeting of cardinals, a conversation was 
reported, in which you were accused of encouraging 
your son in openly haranguing the students on the 
Pincio.” 

How dare they utter such falsehoods ! ” ex- 
claimed Leon, greatly excited. 

My father checked him, and repeated every word 
of the conversation as it actually passed. 

It was unfortunate,” Count Darree remarked, 
** that the students should have heard your remarks, 
my young friend. Be more guarded in future, and 
remember the very dignity of your father’s posi- 
tion is a cause of offence to those who would tra- 
duce him. It is fortunate you are still a minor, 
for my intervention would avail nothing where 


STRIFE. 


I 12 

open expression of seditious sentiments could be 
proved of a responsible party. I am obliged to 
attend a secret council this morning, Baron, and will 
not be able to accompany you to St. Angelo. I 
have a nephew of my old friend, the Count de I’Etoile, 
under my care, and he is better acquainted with the 
points of interest in the history of the fortress than 
I am; so if you will accept him as an escort, he will 
make your visit to St. Angelo more enjoyable than 
I could, possibly. You will find him at the fortress 
on presentation of this note.” Rising to take leave, 
Count Darree continued talking in a lowered tone 
to my father, while my brother and sister, noticing 
my fearful agitation, whispered their reassurances 
that failed to dispel my fears for our safety. Ma- 
dame Leon’s warning was too well grounded. 

My father accompanied his friend to the door. 
We waited his return to the breakfast-room with 
considerable impatience for the space of nearly a 
half hour. When he returned there was an expres- 
sion of suppressed indignation in his countenance, 
of which I had seen the mere shadow on former 
occasions, but never such complete, unmitigable 
wrath. 

Laying the note Count Darree had given him on 
the table, my father threw himself into an easy- 
chair, and holding out his hand to Leon, said, with 
an effort to smile : 

My son, do not give yourself any needless un- 
easiness about your slight indiscretion of yesterday. 
The Count Darree, unused to the milder forms of 


STRIFE. 


II3 

family discipline, exaggerated the effect of your 
remarks to awe you into future submission to ex- 
pediency, the cardinal virtue in Rome. Another 
matter, for more serious consideration, has come to 
light by a really curious combination of little cir- 
cumstances, that, without a key, might have passed 
under my notice forever without the least suspicion 
of their significance. 

“ Did either of you notice an old woman on the 
steps of the Piazza di Spagna yesterday, who seemed 
to watch our movements with more than ordinary 
curiosity ? ” 

I did,” I replied, and described her appearance. 

” That woman is Antonio’s mother ! ” said my 
father, and continued, with a voice trembling with 
indignation, “Antonio is a mere tool of the Jesuits, 
and Count Darree informs me that no Catholic fam- 
ily in Rome would trust him near them, on account 
of his servile dread of the Papal Government, that 
induces him to obey the meanest commands of the 
Jesuit confessors.” 

“ How could Dr. Leon have been so grossly im- 
posed upon ? ” questioned my sister, as if she half 
suspected Count Darree might have exaggerated 
this circumstance, as well as the matter of Leon’s 
heedlessness. ^ 

“ It would not be fair to say the doctor had been 
imposed upon,” replied my father; “but I do not 
envy the spirit of his former master, who, discover- 
ing Antonio’s entire subjection to the Papal influ- 
ence, transferred him to a Protestant master and a 
10 * H 


114 


STRIFE. 


foreign country, rather than denounce the spy as 
well as the system that influenced him." 

“ Surely, my dear father, you will not venture on 
that plan at this time, after the warning we have just 
had ! " said Leoni, with the greatest alarm in her 
voice and countenance. 

It is that consideration that annoys me so ex- 
ceedingly," said my father. “ If I had no one but 
myself to think of, I would assert openly my disgust 
for the men and the principle that can employ a 
servant to discover the secrets and unavoidable con- 
fidences of those whom he serves, as if his obliga- 
tion to them ceased with the signing of his receipts. 
How are we ever to raise even the most intelligent 
servants to a just appreciation of their responsibility, 
while the very principles of their religious system 
are corrupted by artifice and treachery ? " 

I can account for Antonio’s strange conduct 
now,” said Leon, sorrowfully. Several times, in 
my room, he has hastily executed some important 
duty, and left with an excuse I considered insuffi- 
cient to warrant his slighting my wishes. But I 
remember that on each occasion I was speaking my 
mind freely on the Unity question, and the last time 
he ventured to say, before going: 

“ Monsieur Leon, in Rome words are winged. 
They are no sooner hatched than they fly, and the 
air is filled with invisible snares !" 

'‘And I am sure Nannine is unhappy here,” I 
said, to support my brother’s suggestion and excuse 
Antonio. “She never once mentioned Antonio’s 


f 


STRIFE. II5 

mother, and I do not believe they have met since 
we came to Rome.” 

“ I understand that, since the Count Darree’s ex- 
planation,” said my father, less excited, but evidently 
ill at ease. 

“Antonio is at variance with his mother, regarding 
a singular affair, certainly. Count Darree tells me, 
that shortly after Antonio came to Immergriin, old 
Lavinia suddenly locked up her apartments, took 
her daughter Nita — only five years old then — and, 
without giving any idea of her purpose to her neigh- 
bors, went off to the Abruzzi. When she returned, 
she brought with her own child, another girl about 
the same age as Nita. To all her curious ques- 
tioners, she declared that the child, Amelia, was the 1 
daughter of Ermitano, an old man who had once 
been a leader of the Carbonari, and who still had 
more influence with the half-civilized creatures in- 
habiting those regions than any one else, and for 
that reason was encouraged by the Government in 
his eccentric way of ruling them, in both temporal 
and as much of spiritual affairs as he could himself 
introduce among them.” 

If you ever endured the sensation one has when the 
heart seems to have taken a leap into the throat, you 
can form some idea of my feelings, dear reader, when 
the name of Amelia was again associated with a ro- 
mantic story that could easily be attached to Made- 
moiselle Beaumont’s lost heiress, the young Count 
de Meffray’s friend — or sister — and the object of 
my secret interest, whose fate I might yet have to 


ii6 


STRIFE. 


decide, if nothing should be heard from the only 
one besides myself who could declare her origin. 

The time had not yet elapsed for my father to 
open the sealed instructions, and I recalled Made- 
moiselle’s injunction of secrecy too vividly to think 
of committing my convictions to any one regarding 
this waif^ or her reputed father, whom I at once be- 
lieved was Emil Beaumont ! 

“ It has been ten years,” my father continued, 
since old Lavinia brought the child into Rome, 
and, taking rooms on the Gregorianna, considered 
the most healthful part of the city, furnished them 
handsomely, and provided tutors for Amelia, who 
always insisted on sharing the benefits of this in- 
struction with her foster-sister Nita. 

It was remarked that old Lavinia seldom appeared 
at the church, and always accompanied Amelia to 
the convent when she attended some of the classes 
after her tenth year, and called for her, when the 
lessons were ended, never permitting her to pose for 
altar paintings, as many of the daughters of the 
Roman nobility, even, did — within the Roman re- 
strictions. But no one interfered with Lavinia’s ju- 
risdiction until about a year ago. Count Darree 
received a communication from the Count de I’Etoile, 
the brother of the late Count de Meffray, saying a 
, woman, evidently a gypsy tramp, had told him that 
when the child of the Countess de Meffray born in 
Naples was reported still-born, it was the trick of an 
enemy, who carried off the heiress to the Abruzzi, 
and as the count, the countess, and the physician. 


STRIFE. 


II7 


who was an accomplice to the deed, were all de- 
ceased now, she alone could find the hermit who 
claimed the child as his daughiter, or the woman in 
whose care he had placed her in Rome. Suspecting 
the woman of one of those gypsy outrages practised 
on the credulous to secure their reward, the Count 
de rfitoile hastily dismissed the tramp, who made 
good her escape from the neighborhood before pru- 
dence suggested some attention to the matter. 

“ The Count Darree immediately thought of La- 
vinia’s foster-child on receiving the communication, 
and rashly threatened Lavinia with severe punish- 
ment if she did not reveal more than she declared 
she was able to tell of the young girl’s father, the 
hermit; and finally tracing him to the Abruzzi, 
the count was informed that the hermit had been 
dead two months, and a superannuated Waldensian 
had taken his hermitage, and was called by the 
same name, Ermitano ! ” 

“ And what effect has this incident had on the two 
most interested in such a serious question ? ” asked 
Leon. 

“ The Count Darree informs me they very sensi- 
bly treat the matter with equal indifference and in- 
credulity.” 

Count Darree might have been right in his con- 
clusion ; but what I had seen in the Church of La 
Trinita di Monti made me argue differently. A 
hundred questions rushed to my mind, but I dared 
not trust my voice to ask a single one ; and I was 
glad when the subject of Antonio’s treatment was 
again resumed. 


Ii8 


STRIFE. 


Antonio is vexed because his mother never told 
him of the responsibility she had undertaken, imme- 
diately on his leaving her, ten years ago, and now 
he wishes her to place Amelia in a convent and re- 
move his sister from Rome, where she associates 
with the French models at the Academy; but La- 
vinia resents his interference, and Nannine is for- 
bidden by Antonio to visit her. The count intimates 
that Antonio is prompted by a certain cardinal whose 
Jesuitical principles are well known, and he advises 
me to leave Rome as soon as possible, if I wish to 
retain him and Nannine. Until I am convinced of 
the justice of Count Darree’s accusation against An- 
tonio, I do not incline to part with him ; and as we 
have no particular attraction in Rome, we may as 
well remove both Antonio and Nannine from the 
influence against which I am warned. To-morrow 
we start, then, for Naples. In the future, also, we 
must be more circumspect, and utter no sentiments 
in their presence that can be repeated to our injury 
at the confessional.” 

With this conclusion our conference ended, and 
we hastened our preparations for the visit to San 
Angelo. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


SAN ANGELO. 

I F the reader has forgotten that little circumstance 
of the motto, over which I had brooded in the 
shadows of Immergriin, let him recall it, and have 
patience with me if I declare that, in spite of the 
I glorious sunshine of an Italian atmosphere, that word 
hope^ in its three variations, spes^ esperance, and spe- 
\ ranza, insinuated itself into every cunning intricacy 
of suggestion that my feverish fancy devised, as we 
drove to the fortress of San Angelo; and I asso- 
ciated Emil Beaumont and the hermit of the Abruz- 
zi in one personage, Amelia and the lost countess 
in another, and imagined all sorts of horrible fates 
for Mademoiselle Beaumont, who might have lost 
the medal, or met with some accident, perhaps even 
a sudden death, and the little talisman that was to 
have assisted her to reach the hermit, and accom- 
plish the, restoration of Amelia, was achieving won- 
derful successes for some accidental owner, while 
its rightful possessors were losing the blessing con- 
tained in its message of hope ! 

No old crone ever shook up, held to the light, ex- 
amined and re-examined the settlings of her coffee- 

119 


120 


STRIFE. 


cup more sedulously than I peered into the sedi- 
ment of my morbid imagination. I recalled my 
dream. No count, no lost heiress. But, if Father 
Beaumont, in leaving his mission not fulfilled, had 
entailed on me a part of the work, was Antonio, a 
mere servant, the link of association between the De 
Meffrays and our own house ? Or would Mademoi- 
selle Beaumont find this waif whom I regarded as 
the object of her mission, and bring us together? 

My mood was a fit prelude for the visit we were 
about to make. The angel on the summit of the 
fortress in the pacific act of sheathing his sword, 
called forth a suggestion from Leon, as we came 
to the Bridge of St. Angelo, that it “ might be ad- 
visable to hold the sword suspended yet awhile.” 
If the remark provoked a laugh, the shadowy gran- 
deur and dignity of the great tower that rose majes- 
tically higher as we entered a grand portal, and drew 
up to the door of the commandant’s office, effectually 
sobered us. We were within the walls where hun- 
dreds of state-prisoners were incarcerated on charges, 
many of which were not so well grounded as my 
brother’s offence. 

We had scarcely descended from the carriage, 
when the Count de Meffray appeared, and taking 
the note my father had given to the commandant 
for him, he merely glanced at the superscription, 
and with a frank smile and manly grace offered his 
“best services in conducting us over the snares and 
pitfalls of St. Angelo!” 

My father’s German frigidity melted before the 


STRIFE. 


I2I 


[ genial warmth of the young southerner, who re- 
ceived his guardian’s friends with an irresistible grace, 
the sympathetic fervor of the Italian, and ready 
adaptation of the Frenchman, evincing his double 
nationality in those slight expressions and gestures 
distinctly characteristic, and yet combined without 
incongruousness in this young nobleman. 

The reader is doubtless familiar with innumerable 
descriptions of St. Angelo, if not with the colossal 
square tower itself, whose travertine blocks, covered 
with the mould of sixteen centuries, have preached 
their sermons to as many generations of men. 
Leon, my brother, was in an ecstasy of delight as 
we ascended higher and nearer the centre of the 
mausoleum of Hadrian, till we stood on the broad 
terrace that overlooks Rome and the Campagna. 

The Count de Meffray had exhibited a store of 
information of historical interest connected with St. 
Angelo, while he discussed with my father and L^on 
the traditions of Goths and Greeks, Latins, Spanish, 
and English scribes ; and in that animated communi- 
cation of mind to mind, a mutual understanding 
seemed to have sprung into existence between my 
father and Leon and their new acquaintance that 
months of ordinary intercourse might not have 
accomplished. 

My sister, like myself, was disposed to be silent 
all the time we traversed the gloomy stairways, gal- 
leries, and chambers, where darkness brooded, never 
penetrated by the light of heaven’s sunshine, and 
nursing in its dismal corners that spirit of revenge 
1 1 


122 


STRIFE. 


that is born of oppression, and achieves its triumphs 
in the name of justice. To me, the deathlike still- 
ness of the prison was worse than the terrors of the 
sepulchre ; for living hearts were immured in these 
cold dungeons, and spirits that aspired to the liberty 
that seeks only the right of self-control in the limits 
of God’s law alone, were broken and crushed into 
forced submission by the power that instituted the 
Inquisition, and was the Inquisition in everything but 
the name, in 1847! But my sister forced herself to 
speak when occasional pauses seemed to require it, 
her amiable and willing disposition giving a sweet- 
ness of expression and gentleness of manner that I 
saw the Count de Meffray admired, as every one did 
who met her under such circumstances. I was more 
selfish in my moody reserve, and was torturing my- 
self with the indulgence of an old trick — following 
out a train of suggestion by association. The idea 
of revenge had suggested Leon’s remark, on the 
Pincio, “ Henceforth the cause of battle must be lib- 
erty — the consequence, revenge;” and pursuing a 
line of equally cheerful images, I arrived at a con- 
clusion in the shape of an imaginary war, in which 
my father and brother perished, Leoni died of a 
broken heart, and I returned forlorn to Immergrlin, 
when I was startled by the Count de Meffray’s direct 
question : 

“ Mademoiselle Minnette, would you take pleasure 
in visiting the cell said to be that of Beatrice Cenci? ” 

My face crimsoned with a consciousness of posi- 
tive rudeness in appearing so insensible to the kind- 


STRIFE. 


123 


ness of one on whose patience in going over the 
same routine required by every chance pleasure- 
I seeker we had no claim, and might have been left to 
the tedious volubility of a hired cicerone, 

“I should, indeed, enjoy it,” I replied, ^'if it will 
not tax your kindness too far. Count de Meffray.” 

Why, sister, we have not had a word from you 
since we entered the castle,” exclaimed Leon. “ I 
began to think some grim enchanter had laid on you 
the spell of silence.” 

“ If it were so,” I replied, I am doubly indebted 
to Count de Meffray for dispelling the evil spirit with 
the countercharm of Beatrice’s name.” 

The potency of that charm has been proved 
many times in this old castle, exciting interest when 
all other means have failed.” 

Did he mean to rebuke my seeming inattention to 
his efforts to make our visit entertaining? I de- 
served it, perhaps ; but I could not permit him to 
rest under a false impression of my conduct. I 
looked an appeal, and my father, who had expected 
me to reply, responded the moment he saw my need 
of his aid. 

“ I must apologize for my daughter’s abstraction, 
Count de Meffray. She is not usually capricious, 
and, under ordinary circumstances, I should be in- 
clined to regard her silent attention as great a com- 
pliment to your impressive account of St. Angelo as 
our demonstrative expressions of pleasure.” 

“I beg you will not imagine for a moment that I 
thought otherwise,” answered De Meffray, hastily. 


124 


STRIFE. 


“ I was rather flattered by mademoiselle’s intense 
interest in the scenes we have often pointed out to 
visitors without gaining even polite attention. I 
attributed her silence to the susceptibility I myself 
have to grave influences, and if I had been free 
from the office of cicerone, in all probability I should 
have relapsed into a sympathetic silence, and some 
one might have taken us for two ghosts of the past, 
wandering through this old fortress.” 

'‘And have been frightened out of their senses,” 
chimed in Leon, ready to aid in carrying off the 
affair with a laugh that Count de Meffray’s words 
had already provoked by their comic admixture of 
badinage and dignity. 

Summoning a corporal by a slight gesture, the 
count gave an order for two torches to be brought, 
to light us to the cell ; and as he conducted us to ; 
the judgment-hall where Beatrice was said to have 
been condemned to die, he requested my father to 
use the German language in the presence of any of 
the guards, and, adopting it himself, alluded to the 
unfortunate affair on the Pincio. 

“ There is scarcely an intelligent youth in Rome,” 
he added, seeing my father puzzled to answer, “who 
does not heartily coincide with every word M. de 
Stalberg uttered. But we only whisper it,” dropping 
his voice. 

The torchbearers appearing at the entrance to a 
narrow passage-way leading to the cells, Count de 
Meffray made a movement toward them, and my 
father availed himself of the pretext for remaining 


STRIFE. 


125 


silent to the remarks of the young Italian, tempting 
as they were to a response as frank as the prompt- 
ings of the ingenuous confession. 

Arriving at the door of the cell, where the flam- 
beau preceding us had been placed inside to illu- 
minate the gloomy entrance, we were obliged to 
stoop very low and almost creep into the cell. 

Here is an indignity,” said De Meffray — taking 
care to speak in German — “that I never could com- 
prehend. The cruelty of incarceration in a living 
tomb was surely satisfaction enough, without the in- 
fliction of such degradation as to force noble victims 
to crawl like animals into their dens.” 

“ Marie Antoinette complained of the same indig- 
nity, at the Conciergerie,” replied Leon; “and I do 
not wonder she submitted to actual imprisonment 
with more patience than to such petty tyranny.” 

My father shuddered as he looked around at the 
bare walls, with their heavy lining, through which 
no sound could penetrate, at the narrow bed, a mere 
step, elevated enough to distinguish it from the floor 
of the cell, and a stone shelf, the only sign of a 
human habitation. 

“ Ah ! ” he sighed, sorrowfully ; “ it must have 
been a bruised and broken heart, indeed, that could 
find in this darkness and desolation repose and 
peace ! ” 

“And how the tyrants failed to bury all remem- 
brance of the bright spirit, even as they immured her 
fair body in this living tomb,” answered Leon. The 
world is full of witnesses imbued with a sympathy 

II * 


126 


STRIFE. 


for Beatrice’s sufferings, that will always reflect dis- 
grace on her persecutors.” 

” Guido was the chosen medium for the revelation 
of that pure spirit, too subtle for the flames or the 
irons of the Inquisition,” I replied. “ He must have 
been gifted with Hhe discerning of spirits,’ for to 
the Beatrice in the Barberini, I turn from the pretty 
dreamy faces, that awaken pleasing thoughts, as they 
are represented in every lady’s boudoir — realizing 
nothing more than a copyist’s ideal of Beatrice — as I 
do from the thousands of paintings of the crucifixion, 
to my soul’s vision of Calvary, and bend my head with 
reverential awe before that vision of suffering that 
Guido’s streaming eyes beheld ! Where else do we 
find those inflamed, languid eyes wearily following , 
your gaze, while a pallor of fearful apprehension 
marks the countenance wasted by suffering, its pal- 
lor painfully contrasting with the fever-flush on the 
cheeks, and the crimsoned swollen lips ; the ema- 
ciated throat too thin to support the weary head, 
drooping under the weight of its drapery. And as 
we look again and again, with an irresistible fasci- 
nation, into those liquid orbs, where the soul seems 
still floating, the dark pupils emit electrical flashes 
that a death-wound only could elicit from a spirit 
escaping in triumph, which a Guido alone could 
arrest ! ” 

Mademoiselle Minnette, if you were an artist, I 
should pray to be your pupil,” exclaimed De Meffray ; 

for you would impart the first, last, and great re- 
quisite of all art, its very sotd — sympathy ! ” 


STRIFE. 


127 


“ That is the secret of the success of women in arts, 
where the heart must be moved, before the eye can 
be pleased,” said my father. 

“ I have heard,” continued De Meffray, ** many 
artists declare, that the impulse of inspiration failed 
them in the presence of the Beatrice Cenci, and a 
real depression seized them, that is the despair of 
all art.” 

One more object of interest to Leon was named 
— the spiral corridor running around the whole cir- 
cumference of the circular tower, nine hundred and 
sixty-seven feet, at a very steep grade — I have for- 
gotten the exact degree of inclination. 

Passing from the cell of Beatrice to the corridor, 
we came again into sunlight, and our eyes, that had 
become accustomed to the torchlight, felt the relief 
when we again entered the darkness of the corridor. 
The torches behind us penetrated the blackness of 
its darkness with a yellow glow, like the sun through 
a London fog. 

Leon and Count de Meffray each took a cannon- 
ball and rolled them down the corridor, their rever- 
berations gaining force as their momentum increased, 
and producing shocks equal to the discharge of 
heavy guns. Thinking I would improve the oppor- 
tunity to gather some memento of St. Angelo, I 
stooped to pick up some of the little white marble 
mosaics loosened frorh the pavement of the corridor, 
and was just in the act of putting my treasures in 
my pocket, when I received a heavy blow on my 
shoulder, heard a cry of alarm from Leoni and my 


128 


STRIFE. 


father, and felt a sharp pain in my arm, that caused 
me to faint. 

A fearful sensation, like the darting of a hundred 
lances in my arm, was the first thing I realized on 
opening my eyes. I was lying on a soldier’s couch 
in the guard-room, a surgeon dressing a wound in 
my arm. 

I could not lift my eyes at first, to reassure the 
frightened group around me. The pain was sick- 
ening ; but under my eyelids, only half opened for 
some time, I could view the operation of the sur- 
geon. My sleeves were torn from my left arm, and 
the surgeon was cutting away from the flesh scraps 
of the material that was sticking to it. 

“ The burns are not as deep as I was afraid they 
were,” he remarked. “ They will be painful, but not 
serious. Ah! mademoiselle, you are better! You 
are unfortunate to suffer so much from the stupidity 
of that torch-bearer.” 

I tried to reply, and managed a faint smile, in 
answer to Leoni’s anxious look ; but my mind had 
already endured considerable tension, and the acci- 
dent found me not too well prepared for so great a 
shock to my nervous system. I again became in- 
sensible with the pain, and did not recover conscious- 
ness till after I had been taken to my own apartment 
at our hotel. Leoni’s sobs roused me to an effort to 
speak, and I succeeded in reassuring her by insist- 
ing on being informed of “ the manner of the acci- 
dent.” 

The surgeon explained that the corporal, lower- 


STRIFE. 


129 


ing his torch to pour out the liquid tar boiling in 
the cup of the flambeau, was struck by my elbow as 
I drew back m'y hand with the mosaics, and in his 
awkward attempt to apologize for being so near me, 
dropped the torch, the metal striking my shoulder, 
and the liquid fire falling on the back of my loose 
sleeve.” 

“ To Count de Meflray’s great presence of mind 
we owe your escape from worse consequences,” said 
my father. 

“ Was he burned in extinguishing the fire ? ” 1 
asked. 

I He has just a few blisters to attest to his brave- 
ry,” said the surgeon, smiling ; and, administering a 
composing draught, he left with a promise to call in 

I the evening again. 

I The Count de Meflray called while the surgeon 
was dressing my wound in the evening. He re- 
mained only long enough to be assured of my re- 
covery from the faintness of the morning, and left 
kind messages of regret for the accident, and a hope 
that he would have the pleasure of seeing me much 
improved in a few days.” 

Our departure from Rome was frustrated for the 
present. One thought consoled me. 

Could I possibly aid the young unfortunate girl in 
whose sad fate all my sympathies were enlisted ? 

By declaring what I knew, I might. But — 
Mademoiselle Beaumont! How could I have be- 
trayed Jier secret^ not mine^ and so have forced a 

I 


STRIFE. 


130 

sacrifice on her part, that she might have recon- 
sidered ! 

In view of such struggles between the mere sen- 
timents of our hearts that bespeak our divine hu- 
manity, and the unyielding sense of justice that 
proves our huina7t divmity, do not the godlike powers 
of the soul assert themselves ? If it beats in vain 
against its walls of flesh, if its vision is limited, its 
knowledge finitely circumscribed, it is still conscious 
of realms beyond the finite, where eternity will satisfy 
its boundless aspirations. 

If I had been intrusted with the knowledge that 
would decide the happiness of a fellow-being, what 
cruelty it seemed to be bound to silence that con- 
demned both to unwilling suffering! 

Unwilling suffering! that was my mother’s re- 
proach — “ impatieftce" with the inscrutable dispensa- 
tions of Heaven 1 

I would wait. 

So I declared to myself, when at last my staring 
eyes consented to close for rest that night. But 
with my feverish dreams came horrors of gloomy 
cells — then' prisoners burning in flames that could 
not be reached. Once Beatrice’s face appeared at 
the grating of her cell, calm and unmoved by the 
torturing fire, even smiling at my excitement. Then 
it was Amelia’s face, full of mournful reproach ! 


s 


CHAPTER XIV. 


RETROSPECTION. 

I T scarcely need be said that, like all accidents, 
mine seemed to have happened at the worst 
possible time for us. Besides, the Baron de Stalberg 
was no Abraham. His motherless Isaacs were ex- 
empt from the call for burnt offerings, on the prin- 
ciple of weakness in the parent, which, according to 
Luther’s wife, decided the choice of the father rather 
than the mother, in the call for the sacrifice of Isaac. 
My father stood in the relation of both parents ; and 
no mother could have been more distressed over the 
wound that was deeply burned in my arm. 

We had almost resolved to discontinue the jour- 
ney, when, as if he had anticipated some such intent, 
Dr. Leon wrote : 

“ If you are so ungrateful as not to remain absent 
another year, and confirm the benefits already de-' 
rived, I will prescribe the Antipodes for the least 
sign of a relapse into the old Immergrlin blues!"' 

Nannine and Antonio were never more helpful 
and sincerely kind in their efforts to alleviate my 
sufferings, and relieve my father of his great anxiety, 
part of which they little dreamed the cause! An- 
tonio seemed to have seized upon this excuse to 

131 


132 


STRIFE. 


confine himself to the house ; and, whatever mis- 
chief might have been done through his instrument- 
ality before, certainly during the two weeks we were 
delayed in Rome, after our unfortunate visit to San 
Angelo, there was not the slightest ground for sus- 
picion of his unfaithfulness to my father. 

In the mean time the young friend, of whom the 
reader is no doubt ready to hear something further, 
was gaining rapidly on my father’s esteem and my 
brother’s positive affection. 

Count de Meffray and Leon possessed like qual- 
ities, and my brother, who had never before affiliated 
with any one of his own age and sex, seemed to de- 
light in that mental harmony that existed between 
himself and his new friend. I was not permitted to 
enjoy more than a few minutes in his society each 
time the count called, until the second week after 
my accident. And then the favor was extended no 
more than a half hour. 

My sister — my grave, gentle Leoni — was inter- 
ested, but not so enthusiastic about the count, whom 
my brother declared was possessed of 

“ Every charm that w'ins the heart, 

By Nature given, enhanced by art; ” 

and I was often tempted to laugh at Leoni’s seri- 
ous way of repeating little snatches of conversa- 
tion that she intended for my simple amusement, 
when she was all the while supplying that little bit 
of romance in my nature with substantial food for 
its digestion, in place of the vague, shadowy ques- 
tions that had only tantalized my imagination hith- 


Strife. 


133 


erto. The fatal sisters, the Parcae — my three un- 
gracious pets — were no match for a live, noble 
hero, a mysterious hermit whose whereabout I won- 
dered over, and a lost heiress whose identity I as- 
sured myself I knew. 

Where was Mademoiselle Beaumont? How 
should I inquire after Emil Beaumont, in whose 
death I had no faith ? For else, what was to pre- 
vent the denouement so important to the poor girl 
whose fate was in Mademoiselle Beaumont’s hands? 

I remember how she shivered at the mere sugges- 
tion of her inability to accomplish her great purpose. 

I was so absorbed in this romance, the like of 
which I never expected to find outside the leather 
covers of an ancient novel, that I obtained credit for 
great fortitude in bearing my pain, when the truth 
was, I was half unconscious of any present suffering. 
My own life, as a mere speculator in this strange af- 
fair, was idealized to me. 

Under the care of the surgeon of San Angelo, 1 
improved so far by the tenth day of the wound in 
my arm, that my father was encouraged to appoint 
the Thursday following, three days later, for our 
positive farewell to Rome. 

Just a few minutes after this arrangement was de- 
dided upon, a messenger came from the Count Dar- 
ree, with invitations to meet a party of my father’s 
former college friends, on that evening, at the 
count’s villa, nine miles outside the walls of Rome. 
I joined my entreaties to Ldon’s to induce my father 
to accept the invitation, urging the benefit it would 
12 


134 


STRIFE. 


be to my sister to have a change from our apart- 
ments, where she had remained a close watcher 
through the hours of my suffering, to the cheerful 
villa of the Count Darree, and the society they could 
not fail to find agreeable. There was one great ob- 
stacle to my father’s consent, no less formidable 
than the walls of Rome ! The political agitation in 
certain quarters caused the enactment of the strictest 
martial laws for the safety of the Papal Government. 
One rule required the closing of the gates of the city 
at nine o’clock, and the Count Darree warned my 
father, in his note, that he must not think of return- 
ing to Rome before the following afternoon. 

After numerous objections, overthrown as soon as 
offered by my father and sister, the invitation was 
accepted. Leon remained with me. Antonio was 
to accompany my father, but he hinted that, “should 
my father grow uneasy to have him away from our 
apartments through the night, he knew the guards 
at the gates of the city personally, and could pass 
during the ‘ change,’ if necessary.” 

My father improved this opportunity to push An- 
tonio with several sharp suggestions, that might 
have embarrassed any one guilty of the duplicity 
Antonio had been charged with. His replies and 
manner were so ingenuous that we were all con- 
vinced there was no treachery in his heart toward 
us, and that his apparent pleasure on being informed 
of our arrangement to leave Rome for Sicily, was 
unfeigned. 

Before the hour for our noonday meal, Nannine, 


STRIFE. 


35 


taking an opportunity when no one else was with 
me in my room, said, with considerable hesitation : 

“ Mademoiselle, I have a great favor to ask ! ” 

“ That is a rare thing for you, Nannine : tell me 
quickly, so I can rid myself of one at least of the 
thousand obligations I owe to my faithful foster- 
mother.” Down rolled two big tears over the rosy 
cheeks I so often kissed in my childhood, and I 
brushed them away with something of the old jeal- 
ousy, and kissed my good Nannine heartily. 

“ What is it, Nannine, that makes you so tender- 
hearted to-day? If you weep when I grant the 
favor — Without knowing what it is — what would 
you have done if I had refused ? ” 

It was only an April shower, and my raillery 
brought two merry glances from Nannine’s bright 
eyes, that dried up the drops threatening to follow 
my two captives. 

Mademoiselle, I have received a message from 
Antonio’s mother. She is in great trouble, and says, 
if I chose, I could assist her. I was to have asked 
your permission to leave you this evening, so Antonio 
would not know where I was, but think I was sitting 
here. Now he is going away this evening, may I 
send for mother Lavinia to come here ? ” 

I would have given a hundred scudi one minute 
before for.the opportunity ^dX Nannine not only gave 
me, but begged me to accept as a favor. 

What mites we must always be in the eyes of 
Providence, boring through crusts and rinds, when 
cups brimful of cream are in our way, ready to 


136 STRIFE. 

overflow and drown us — blind insects that we 
are ! 

Fifty questions crowded my brain, so I could not 
shape any, but replied : 

“ Certainly, Nannine, you can do as you please 
about your own affairs; and if Antonio’s conduct to 
his mother makes it necessary for her to appeal to 
you, I cannot think you do wrong to aid her in any 
way you can without hurting Antonio.” 

“Antonio is weak, mademoiselle, and his sister 
Nita has easily made him believe stories of her 
mother, and the Signora Amelia, who is under her 
care, that make him angry with them, and cruelly 
deaf to his mother’s appeals for a better understand- 
ing. Since you are so kind, mademoiselle, I will 
send for mother Lavinia to come here, if it should 
part Antonio and myself forever.” 

Make allowances, dear reader, for Nannine’s na- 
tive enthusiasm and natural propensity to declama- 
tion ! If Italy had done as much as it has said^ united 
Italy to-day would include the universal empire ! 

Though I will admit, the remark so emphatically 
independent, led me to consider that I might have 
been doing a little special pleading on my own ac- 
count when I encouraged Nannine to circumvent her 
husband’s determination. 

The reader knows, however, that I never over- 
estimated the strength of that mutual attraction that 
ought to unite husband and wife, converting obedience 
into compliance, and duty to regard, in the case of 
my bonne and Antonio. This unpremeditated ac- 


STRIFE. 


137 


knowledgment on the part of Nannine rather con- 
firmed my suspicion that the alliance was continued 
on the same ground where it began, a basis of con- 
venience rather than any unusual congeniality. One 
might have thought, too, there was some of the 
force of an old grudge against Antonio in the pat I 
gave my sofa-pillow, with an unaccountable degree 
of satisfaction with the absolute confidence Nannine 
reposed in me. That pat was very like an emphatic 
“ Good ! ” that in my infancy I had maliciously said 
on occasions of triumph over my rival in my bonne's 
attentions. 

Was I childish ? Well, I will bear the imputation 
for the sake of the recollections of the days, the 
golden days of my past ! 

Had you no golden days, dear reader? — nor 
hours? — moments, then — to which you revert as to a 
glimpse of heaven ? When, perhaps in the time of 
your deepest anguish, some pitying- angel floated too 
near the circle of your humanity, and unwarily re- 
vealed to mortal eyes the image of the Comforter ! 
Bear with me, then, while I recall the last day of a 
happy childhood, the full splendor of whose setting 
sun enriched with purple and gold the clouds hover- 
ing in the horizon on that eve of my entrance into 
womanhood, concealing their ominous shadows with 
its dazzling scintillations. 

And who was the alchemist who wrought the 
transition in my heart ? 

Paul de Meffray ! And the Italian Revolution fused 
my whole being in the crucibles of war ! 

12 * 


138 


STRIFE. 


A romance only, I promised the reader — no his- 
tory, no tragedy. 

But every battle-ground has its border groups, ' 
some more, some less picturesque in the red light 
of war. Fiery shells sometimes rear their heads in 
mid-air, and, arching their comet-like trails, seek 
those border groups from the very centre of the con- 
flict. These fiery arcs are triumphant illuminations 
to the laughing gods, but to the victims fresh cause 
“ to weep for the world’s wrong.” 

As my father and Leoni drove from the door of ■ 
the hotel to attend Count Darree’s party, Leon and 
Count de Meffray crossed from the opposite side ' 
of the piazza, saluted the carriage, and entered our I 
hotel to pass a quiet evening. 





CHAPTER XV. 


SURPRISES. 


BASKET of camellias, hyacinths, and violets 



had been placed on my table in the morning, 
and a little card, whose coronet I recognized with- 
out disturbing the flowers, modestly concealed itself 
from other eyes. 

My heart beat a little faster than usual when I 
obeyed Leon’s summons to meet the count in the 
reception-room. 

Old Lavinia would not come, I thought, till later 
in the evening, and, with my catechism all prepared 
for her, I was free to enjoy the hour of lively dis- 
course I expected to hear between the count and 
my brother. 

Nannine, not suspecting any cause for Lavinia’s 
distress but the anxiety to reconcile Antonio before 
his departure from Rome, patiently waited the mo- 
ment of her mother-in-law’s arrival, secure of having 
no unpleasant interruption from Antonio, who could 
not possibly return before ten o’clock. 

After the usual words of greeting had been inter- 
changed between the count and myself, I took the 
chair he placed for me, where, by simply turning my 


140 


STRIFE. 


head, I could view with ease the gay throng of peo* 
pie on the piazza, vividly picturesque in the flaring 
light of the girandoles outside the windows of our- 
hotel. 51 

The count took a seat beside Leon opposite me, 
and I noticed he was not in the mood with which 
he generally responded to Leon’s lively conver- 
sation. His expression varied from gravity to as- 
sumed gayety as fitfully as the firelight playing 
over his features. One moment that indescribable | 
shade of sadness, that would be called pensive ii^ 
a woman’s countenance, would slowly overcast th^ 
eyes and brow, as I had detected it on the Pincio ' 
and at San Angelo. But there was no womanly: 
appeal in the fierce grappling with the emotion that 
compressed his lips, dilated the thin nostril, and be^ 
trayed that rebellious spirit of man that defies fat^ 
to crush him with the stern necessity to endure whaL 
he cannot reconcile with his heart’s tender yearnings.] 
Suddenly, as our imaginations will turn on u^ 
sometimes, and mock our indulgence of it, a thought 
entered my mind that disturbed my peace more than' 
I could understand as a reasonable result even of a 
positive knowledge. ' 

Suppose the count was really certain of his sis-* 
ter’s death, and anxious to clear up the mystery of ] 
Amelia’s birth in order to make her his wife ! To 
me it was a flat, homely thought ! dj 

I was quite satisfied with my opportunity for my . 
investigations, for one evening at least, and hastily^ 
banished my own disagreeable thoughts to listen to 


STRIFE. 


I4I 

the dialogue that was passing between the two 
friends, who again seemed to be mutually attracted 
by some invisible magnetism. 

“ Now, that my father cannot be pained by the 
allusion, and Antonio is at a safe distance, what 
hopes do the Liberalists entertain of Italy’s being 
united ? ” asked Leon. 

“ Mazzini seems to stand alone sometimes, in even 
hoping for the people to throw off the fetters that 
have bound them so long in abject servitude to a triple 
crown. Religious differences interfere with polit- 
ical unions, and it seems as if the corrupt agents of 
the papal power have injured, past remedy, the mem- 
bers that are of vital importance to the movement 
toward manly independence. Oh, it is pitiful to see 
the elements of manhood in a noble nation so de- 
based as they have become through this twofold 
arbitration of Church and State.” 

“Yet, I think,” replied^ my brother, “that when 
the truth becomes so apparent to men as powerful 
in their influence as Count Darree and the sympa- 
thizers he numbers on his lists, the night of super- 
stition must break into a dawning, from the very 
light they reflect.” 

“And yet those men prejudice the world against 
the cause of Italian liberty by their extremes of en- 
thusiasm,” answered De Meffray, gloomily. “ Their 
political differences make them opposed to the 
Papists, their affected adoption of materialism, a 
fashion among the youth of France, Germany, and 
Italy, destroys their allegiance to the truths of the 


142 


STRIFE. 


Church, and their bigotry makes them deaf to the 
rationality of Protestantism. And without some 
religious faith, men can no longer inspire the confi- 
dence of the masses, who have no other consolation , 
than the promises of their religion for the hardships 
of this life.” 

“Tell me,” I ventured to ask, “how you reconcile 
your faith with the philosophy with which you argue 
against the Papist and for the Church, as you ex- 
press it?” 

“ The Church to which I allude,” said De Meffray, 
with more animation than he had yet thrown into 
his manner, “is not the Church of Rome, as it 
exists, with its thousands of plethoric clergy, feed- 
ing on the substance of the laity. On the apostolic 
mother Church have been engrafted the degener- 
ate plants of a strange vine, and, in their banyan- 
like growth, they have concealed the ancient trunk.” 

“But when the pioneers in so sacred a work have 
hewn their way into the venerable tree,” I replied, 

“ when they have lopped off every parasitical twig, 
and admitted the light of truth, all the faithful — 
Roman Catholic and Protestant Catholic — must 
eventually meet on a common basis, to interpret her 
ineffaceable motto, engraved on the ancient trunk, 

* Catholic to every truth of God; Protestant to every 
error of man ! ’ ” 

“And then,” said Leon, completing the figure, 
“ her leaves, for the healing of the nations, will no 
more be blown about by adverse winds of doctrine, 
or be parched in the desert suns of infidelity! ” 


STRIFE. 


143 


Count de Meffray was more affected than he 
wished to betray by this unexpected turn in our 
conversation, and he rose from his chair and poured 
out a goblet of water at a table, while my brother 
suddenly bethought him that it was time to remand 
me to my own apartment. 

“ The count has promised me some of his own 
history, when i have told him of Immergriin, and 
now I shall have a good chance,” said Leon, in a 
tantalizing way. 

“How? a good chance!” I asked. “Are you 
afraid my presence would interfere with your inven- 
tions ? Your genius in that line has never yet been 
daunted by so slight an obstacle.” 

“ Sister,” he replied, with mock gravity, “ preva- 
rication originated with man, I will admit; but wo- 
man was the instigator ; and with a descendant of 
my venerable grandmother Eve staring me in the 
face, I could not presume to attempt romance, and 
Immergriin suggests no other style of rhetoric — 
tout!'^ 

It was with difficulty I resisted the contagion of 
Count de Meffray’s hearty laugh at Leon’s droll ex- 
pression, as he concluded his absurd remark, and I 
could scarcely reply with due dignity. 

“ I shall report your incivility both to our old 
home and my sex, to my father and sister.” 

“Leave hirh to the household gods at Immer- 
grlin. Mademoiselle Minnette,” said De Meffray, 
laughingly ; “ I find the penates no mean vindicators 
of their wrongs ! ” 


144 


STRIFE. 


That random shaft went straight home. I started 
so violently at the suggestion of the old, vague su- 
perstition, that both the count and Leon noticed it, 
and supposed I had suffered one of those twinges of 
pain in which my arm occasionally indulged. 

“ We have thoughtlessly permitted you to remain 
too long,” said De Meffray, opening the door for me 
to pass out, while Leon followed me to be sure 
Nannine was waiting in my room. 

“ Nannine, you need not wait up for Antonio. He 
will scarcely come to-night. But if he should, I 
have a letter to write to Mahren Castle, and I will 
not be asleep till it is too late to expect him.” 

“ Thank you. Monsieur Leon.” 

The door had barely closed when we heard the 
bell ring at the porte cochere, as if a cautious, steady 
hand had made it sound. 

“ Nannine,” I said, “ I will stay in sister’s room 
till you have talked with Lavinia. You will be se- 
cure from interruption only in this room. And be- 
fore she leaves, I wish to see Lavinia alone.” 

“ Mademoiselle, leave the door open, and you can 
hear what she tells me. I would rather you should 
understand the trouble, and you can help me to ad- 
vise mother Lavinia.” 

“ No, unless Lavinia consents to your having a 
third party to her conference, you have no right to 
ask it, or I to listen.” 

As I had judged, the ring was old Lavinia’s, and 
Nannine was informed “a woman wished to see her 
below.” 


STRIFE. 


145 


I had taken a book and was trying to fix my mind 
on its pages, when Nannine opened my door, came 
in, and locked the door opening into the passage- 
way leading from Leoni’s room, and, without saying 
a word, went back to my room, leaving the door 
partly open. 

I had heard some one enter my room with her, 
and her singular conduct puzzled me. Why should 
she lock the door of the room where I was stationed 
to prevent any one passing through to her visitor ? 

I rose hastily, threw down my book, and, turning 
to follow Nannine and ask her meaning, I stood face 
to face with Amelia ! 

“ Pardon my boldness. Mademoiselle de Stalberg; 
but my heart is breaking, and yours is filled with 
human tenderness ! ” 

What a sentence from such a source ! 

Young, beautiful, talented, furnished with all that 
sustains the wants of the body, and even of taste, 
luxuriously, and yet declaring as a world-sick gray- 
beard might, with the mute expression of her large, 
sad eyes, that the world’s “common joys were but 
common cheats,” and her lonely heart had proved it. 

“ I have wished very much to see you,” I said ; 
“ and though the surprise has somewhat bewildered 
me, you are more than welcome to all the comfort I 
can afford you.” 

Seeing me motion to close the door, she prevented 
me, saying: 

“ Mother Lavinia is with Nannine, and I can tell 


146 


STRIFE. 


her to wait for me, if you are not still too weak to 
bear an interview with me. I have so much I wish 
to say to you.” 

“ Tell her, by all means,” I answered; ‘*and stay as 
long as you please. I feel perfectly strong to-night.” 

What could she say to me ? I forgot even to place 
a chair for her before she returned, and sat in my' 
own as if I was not sure but this was all a dream, 
when Amelia herself re-entered, closed the door, 
drew a chair beside me, and, with unmistakable hu- 
man accents, half whispered : 

“ Pauvrette! you have suffered from your accident, 
and Mademoiselle Beaumont was right ; your spirit 
is too keen for its slight frame, and your heart ab- 
sorbs more than its share of the world’s sorrows.” 

“ Mademoiselle Beaumont! — you have seen her?” 

“Yes; and the inexpressible happiness of com- 
muning with one of my own sex, my equal in sta- 
tion, left me with a longing to enjoy the privilege 
again, and so I came to you. When Nannine’s mes- 
sage came to-day, saying you would be alone with 
her this evening, my heart bounded with one mad 
impulse — to risk anything to meet you as we are 
now I ” 

“ I must let you speak, and only listen,” I replied, 
“ till I know what I ought to say. But let me assure 
you at once, that if you are in the position I have 
supposed — the child of noble parents, yet a lonely 
waif; rich by inheritance, yet actually possessing 
nothing — nothing that you can tell me will add 
anything to the sympathy with which my heart has 


STRIFE. 147 

yearned toward you, and I had determined to ex- 
press to you personally before I left Rome.” 

How her Italian blood glowed like crimson flames 
in the cheeks that but a moment before were ashy 
pale ! Her eyes emitted those electric flashes I fan- 
cied were expressed in the Beatrice’s eyes ; and as 
she caught me in her arms and pressed me so close 
to her heart that I could hear its beating, there was 
a wild burst of the passionate longing for the utter- 
ance of the noblest feelings, and yearnings for kin- 
dred communion, in her cry : 

“ O my God ! I have entreated for only one as- 
surance like this, of human affection like the love 
of a sister ! ” 

Her strong, brave heart had held its measure of 
bitterness but too long in silence, and now it over- 
flowed of itself ; and when the arms that had been 
locked around me relaxed their hold, and the poor 
girl sank, weak as a child, into a chair, her choking 
sobs terrified me. I called Nannine, and, without re- 
sistance, Amelia let her take the white scarf from her 
hair, take out the heavy piiis that held her braids, and 
bathe the hot head from a toilette-cup that I held 
for her. 

“ She must not go to-night,” I said, in an under- 
tone, to Nannine, when I followed her to the door. 

“ I am afraid mother Lavinia will not leave her, 
mademoiselle, even here.” 

Tell her I wish it ; and if she refuses you, I will 
see her myself. Prepare Leoni’s bed for her, and be 
sure Antonio does not find Lavinia here before you ^ 
know it.” 


148 


STRIFE. 


The caution was scarcely needed — Nannine was 
too much afraid of Antonio’s temper. He rarely^ 
exhibited it to her, and my father never interfered: 
always simply commenting on the proneness of the 
Italian nature to anger, he declared a wholesome let- 
ting alone was the speediest remedy. 

Closing the door on Nannine, I returned to Ame- 
lia’s side, and seeing her composure was completely 
restored, I kissed her hot cheek, and said, quietly : 

“ I am glad you came to me, and only regret I did 
not obey the impulse that prompted me twenty times 
to ask you to come.” 

“ I have watched you often,” she replied, “ when 
you were driving or walking with your brother, and 
I knew you would feel how sad it was for me to know 
I had a brother, as noble, generous, and tender- 
hearted, and yet did not dare to let him know my 
claim on his affection.” 

“You should not grieve so much at a mere delay 
in your being identified to him. But you saw Made- 
moiselle Beaumont; why, then, does the matter 
rest?” 

“ She cannot prove anything without her Uncle, 
and he cannot be found ! ” 

A cold chill crept around my heart at this declar- 
ation, for I knew that Emil Beaumont was not the 
man to sacrifice even his good name, as his niece 
would, rather than have this innocent girl so cruelly 
deprived of her whole happiness. And if the threat ' 
of Count Darree to search out every possible trace 
of the suspected fraud had reached him, it might be ' 


STRIFE. 


149 


he had been cowardly enough to terminate his own 
life with the sin unatoned! 

“ We will take our own time to talk about it, and 
you must remain here to-night with me, will you ? ” 

“Oh, I wish I could; but I dare not — or, per- 
haps now I can. Ask mother Lavinia, please ?” 

“ If you will lie down on the lounge, I would like 
to speak with her a few minutes.” 

Leaving her comfortably resting, I went to Leoni’s 
room. How strangely out of place old Lavinia ap- 
peared in a room furnished with examples of modern 
art and civilization! And how little she heeded 
them I Her dress, a gra^ cloth skirt, a yellow cot- 
ton shawl crossed over her breast and tied in a knot 
at her back, a red handkerchief, worn like a negro’s 
bandanna, on her head, and heavy sandals secured 
to her feet over thick, yellow stockings, like the 
Blue-coat boys ' in London, composed the entire 
costume. Both elbows rested on her right knee, 
crossed over the left, and her face was covered with 
both hands, in which her head rested. Conforming 
to the custom of the country, where all young peo- 
ple address the aged peasants as mother or father, 
where the position is so undefined as old Lavinia’s, 
I said quietly, fearing she was asleep, and I should 
unnecessarily startle her: 

“ Mother Lavinia, I have a favor to ask.” 

Dropping her arms and raising her head quietly, 
as if she had known all the time that I was regard- 
ing her, and had not, as I supposed, imagined I was 

13* 


STRIFE. 


150 

Nannine, she fixed on me a pair of eyes that seemed 
to absorb, not scan, my soul in my face. 

Child,” she said, “ slowly rising, without moving 
her eyes from my face, “ do not let the world im- 
pose on you. If they see what I do, they will lay 
all their burdens on you ! ” 

What do you mean ? ” I asked. 

“ You have a power to draw the very spirits to 
your aid ; but you let others come between them 
and your own ease.” 

“ Do not speak so,” I said, really distressed; ^‘you 
injure me more than you do good. I am too ready 

“ It will always be so. You are wilful, and refuse 
what I would give my right hand to have.” The 
only way with her, I could see, was to ignore the al- 
lusion, and say what I had come to say. 

'‘Can Amelia stay with me, to-night?” 

“Yes ; why not ? ” 

“ She was afraid she ought not.” 

“ She could not with any one else.” 

“ Then, why with me ? ” The question was asked 
before I could stop myself, and old Lavinia smiled 
at my disconcerted look, when I realized what I had 
done — given her an opportunity to continue the 
subject I had wished to avoid. She read my look, 
and refrained from further mention of it. The 
reader may think I went too far in my purpose to 
serve a stranger, who had no claim on me for the 
compromise of my dignity, in a conspiracy with a 
servant against her husband ; in permitting a woman 


STRIFE. 


I5I 

whose course was not without some suspicions in 
the minds of nearly every one of her neighbors, to 
approach me with her insinuations, characteristic of 
the gypsy crones she had imitated in many ways 
beside her dress, and in opening my arms to one 
whose equality was not established. 

Ah ! the philosophy of expediency, policy, and 
necessity I can appreciate, but not practise. 

That thermometrical process of dividing the affec- 
tions of the heart, and subjecting them under cer- 
tain laws, may be admirable philosophy ; but after 
all, I do believe unchecked sympathy within the 
bounds of delicacy, has compensations that the 
Expedients never realize, with all their philosophy. 

Mademoiselle de Stalberg, you are willing to do 
all in your power to serve the signora ? ” said 
Lavinia. 

Certainly I am ; and determined I will aid her.” 

“ Then let me say to you what I scarcely dare to 
acknowledge to myself. I am afraid the proof of 
her birthright will never be found.” 

“ What is the proof, and where is it ? ” I asked. 

Emil Beaumont’s confession, and the certificate 
of a certain brigand’s wife, who gave, up the care of 
the child to me when she was only five years old.” 

Well, and where are they ? Why not — ” 

I have never seen the woman since I took the 
child; and Emil Beaumont has disappeared! If I 
should tell my convictions to the government of- 
ficers, they would send me to a mad-house, and put 
Amelia in a convent. Some one, I suspect the 


152 


STRIFE. 


brigand woman, or her people, sent a message to : 
Count Darree, telling him that when the Countess . 
de Meffray gave birth to a daughter in Naples, she . 
was not still-born, as Emil Beaumont and her phy- i 
sician had declared, but had been given to a wo- | 
man who sold her, when she was five years old, to | 
Lavinia, the mother of Antonio. J 

I had only to show this paper, from Ermitano, L 
to the Count Darree, to clear myself, and prevent S 
his taking the signora from me ; but, I am certain, 
since Emil Beaumont has disappeared, and his niece 
cannot find him, that Amelia is the sister of the 
young Count de Meffray.” 

I glanced at the paper, containing a brief state- ? 
ment in a bold handwriting, that Lavinia had been ' 
charged with the care of Amelia, the daughter of 
one who had chosen to live in the solitude of the 
mountains, after losing all that could make the 
world attractive ; and should any sudden illness 
cause his death, Lavinia would be instructed where 
to apply for the inheritance he had to leave her. 
The signature was simply, Ermitano. ' 

“The signora can tell you all we know about 
Mademoiselle Beaumont, and about her uncle ; but, , 
mademoiselle, I am in great trouble about something 
I cannot tell the signora ; it would do no good, and 
distress her still more. 

“ When I took the child from the brigand woman, 
she gave me a little medal with a motto inscribed on 
it, and told me I must go once in every six months ' ■ 
to the Abruzzi, where Ermitano’s hermitage was ; 




STRIFE. 


153 


and as I could not see him without that medal, I 
must always have it with me. After I was forced to 
tell the Count Darree where Ermitano’s hermitage 
was, I .went myself to inforrn him what had been 
said. He gave me notes dated one year ahead for 
the allowance I have paid to me for the signora at 
the banker’s, and said I would hear from him when 
it was necessary to come again. 

“ When I came home, I found I had left the medal; 
and when I called to mind the last I had seen of it, 
I remembered it was in Ermitano’s own hands ; and 
he had walked with me to the last pass where I had 
to show it usually, so that I did not need it, and for- 
got about it. He must have kept it purposely, so I 
could not come back, and that is why I am afraid 
nothing more will ever be known of the affair.” 

I considered a moment, and then took off my ring 
and handed it to Lavinia, with the inscription turned 
so she could read it. 

Whose ring was this ? ” she exclaimed. 

'' My mother’s,” I answered. 

Then your family must have been connected with 
the leaders of the Carbonari, and you could pass any- 
where among the outlaws who keep their name, but 
are no more like them than Pius IX. is like the 
Apostle JPeter!” 

Giving me back the ring, she continued : “ If at 
any time I think I can find Ermitano, as he chose 
to call himself, that ring might do more to aid the 
signora than anything except Mademoiselle Beau- 
mont’s medal, like the one I had, and which, of 
course, I cannot have.” 


154 


STRIFE. 


Very well,, mother Lavinia ; if you believe it will 
serve in that way, you may have the ring whenever 
you come or send for it.” 

Expressing her thanks for this unexpected relief, 
she turned to the door, saying : 

“ I must go ; all you have done this evening of 
your own accord, I was coming to beg you to do, 
through Nannine, for the signora has been quietly 
grieving her heart out; and when I received Nan- 
nine’s message, I told the signora you would be glad 
to hear of Mademoiselle Beaumont, and so tempted 
her to come to you. As you love truth, be true to 
her!” 

Before I could reply, Lavinia was already on the 
stairs; and when Nannine ran in, alarmed, thinking 
Antonio had returned, the street door had closed on 
the faithful old friend of my guest. 


CHAPTER XVI. 
love’s young dream.” 

S EEING it was only mother Lavinia who had 
descended the stairs, Nannine lost the look of 
alarm with which she had hurried to the hall, and, 
turning to me with an expression of sorrowful per- 
plexity, she remarked : 

“ Poor mother Lavinia is very unfortunate ; her 
life has been so full of disappointments. Nita was 
always a deceitful girl, but mother Lavinia says her 
father bequeathed nothing but his wickedness to her, 
and that is why she bears with her so patiently. The 
signora should not fret : they will find Nita with the 
models tn route to Paris, of course.” 

” Find Nita ! ” I was on the point of exclaiming, 
for it was the first intimation I had that she was 
missing; but I refrained from any comment. It 
suited my purpose to let Nannine suppose Amelia’s 
''fretting'' was on Nita’s account. 

“ Mother Lavinia tells me the signora has eaten 
nothing all day, and I am preparing some bouillon 
coupe and wine-toast for both of you, mademoiselle. 
I am afraid the baron will think I have been remiss 
if he finds you ill after this excitement.” 

“ No fear, Nannine. My father will entirely ap- 

155 


156 


STRIFE. 


prove my course ; and how I shall enjoy brother’s 
surprise when he meets our guest at breakfast ! ” 

I had followed Nannine to the cuisine de navire, as 
Leon called the little cook-room, no larger than a 
ship’s cuddy, and requested her to arrange part of 
the outside wrapping over the bandaged arm that 
had become loosened. After this little delay, I re- 
turned to my room, and what was my fright when I 
discovered the door leading to Leoni’s room open ! 
Antonio was my first thought. He had probably 
found the lower door unbolted, and I had forgotten 
to lock the reception-room after Lavinia went out. 
Of course, he was searching every corner but the 
kitchen, usually deserted at that hour; and what 
must be Amelia’s consternation ! Hurrying into the 
room, what did I see ? 

A picture time will never efface from my recollec- 
tion. 

An artist would have seized it for an original ver- 
sion of the old but ever new subject, “love’s first 

DREAM ! ” 

I have not told you, I believe, dear reader, that 
my brother was a very handsome youth. He had 
the same cast of countenance as my father — that 
Greek type of the classic German face, not common, 
but found in some of the old German families. Suf- 
fering had made this rather cold outline almost 
severe in my father’s case ; but Leon’s brown eyes 
and hair, and a peculiar wreathing of the lip that 
softened his whole expression, when my mother’s 
own smile seemed to play over his features, could 


STRIFE. 


157 


not be compared with the usually stern look that 
my father’s gray eyes and iron-gray hair increased. 

If the intruder — that he was — had been aston- 
ished, he was philosopher enough to quickly rid 
himself of all uneasy emotions, for the full realization 
of the pleasure so unexpectedly found. Amelia was 
quietly sleeping. Nature, so sadly exhausted, had 
yielded to the gentle ministrant who soothes the 
wounded spirit into her own calm repose. 

A warm flush suffused her cheeks, and the lashes 
of her closed eyelids swept them like a silken fringe. 
Her long black braids hung down, one resting on 
the floor, the other thrown around her head, over 
the pillow. Her left hand seemed to have fallen on 
the pillow while it was raised to thrust the braid 
back from her forehead; and the lining of that hand 
was too delicate for any one to mistake. The fin- 
gers were as fair and waxy as an infant’s ; and that 
peculiar pink that all the art of a skilful dealer in 
cosmetics could not imitate, tinted the sides of the 
fingers, the tips, and the fleshy part of the palms. 
She wore the same dress I described at the chapel, 
and her skirt falling off her feet, displayed slippers, 
in place of the heavy sandal, with narrow ribbons 
crossed around the ankle, and coquettish little bows 
on the toes. 

Leon was so wrapt with admiration of the picture, 
whose charm no mortal could have resisted, that of 
course he was oblivious of Minnette de Stalberg’s 
very existence. And I verily believe, if I had ac- 
costed him in that trance of delight with the ques- 
14 


STRIFE. 


158 

tion, “Where is the fortress for the protection of this 
fair suppliant?” he would, like Stefano Colonna, have 
placed his hand on his heart, and smilingly an- 
swered, Eccola!'* 

Ah! Monsieur Leon, for your teasing, what a 
sweet revenge to banish you from my pretty cap- 
tive’s presence, without one word of satisfaction for 
*the hundred questions with which you would assail 
me ! ” 

A treacherous sigh escaped me, and I was be- 
trayed at the very moment of this exulting thought. 
To Leon’s eager inquiring look I made no reply; 
but, assuming a solemn gravity, I warned him with 
a gesture to be silent and leave the room 1 Placing 
his hand over his mouth, he glided out, motioning 
me to follow. 

He never stopped till he reached the reception- 
room, and then he exclaimed, “ Where in all the 
earth did that splendid girl come from — or is she 
one of your invocations embodied ? ’* 

“You would not believe me if I should tell you 
who she is; and, as to my invocations, if they are 
all as real flesh-and-blood people as this one, I shall 
be guilty of no sacrilege in calling for them. Bro- 
ther,” I continued, provokingly cool, and looking at 
a mantel clock, “ it is too late for Antonio now, and 
Nannine is coming with some refreshment for the 
signora ; so let me beg you to be a dutiful son of 
your correct father, and retire immediately!” 

“The signora! — that’s very satisfactory. Min- 
nette de Stalberg, I am here in place of the Baron 
de Stalberg, invested with all due authority to con- 


STRIFE. 


159 


trol his household, in his absence. If you resist 
my authority, I must seize your bonne^ Nannine, as 
hostage, and intercept the refreshments.” 

Nannine came in with a tray temptingly arranged, 
and stood smiling, as if wonderfully amused at 
Leon’s evident perplexity. 

“ Nannine,” I said, “ lay the cover on the refresh- 
ment table, in this room; and add to your dishes 
some cake, grapes, and mandarins, for my brother : 
he is hungry!” 

"‘Oh, sister! that is too bad!” The pleading 
voice did more to bring me to a compromise than 
the words of deprecation; so I took him to my room, 
and, without naming Mademoiselle, or even Emil 
Beaumont, (I intended no one but my father should 
receive that confidence, and even he would not have 
learned anything from me, if the packet had not 
been intrusted to him by Mademoiselle, showing, as 
a last resort, he should be informed of the secret,) I 
told Leon my impressions in such a way that he at 
once felt convinced I was right. 

“ And the count knows nothing of it ! ” he ex- 
claimed, more than as the report of some cheating 
gypsy, who hoped to get a reward for the fabrica- 
tion, and get away with it before anything could be 
proved.” 

“Brother, are you sure of that?” I asked. “I 
have fancied that something has taken hold of his 
thoughts, with regard to this suggestion, more 
deeply than he chooses to acknowledge.” 

“ What made you think so ? ” asked Leon. 


i6o 


STRIFE. 


That occasional indescribable sadness that with- 
out any apparent cause flits over his countenance.” 

“How minutely you study each other’s expres- 
sion ! ” Leon replied, with that arch look that was 
always so provoking ! 

The blood rushed to my face, and my eyes filled 
with tears the next instant; but, seeing my real dis- 
comfort, the good-hearted boy said, coaxingly: 

“ Never mind. I only meant that I could match 
any one’s sisters with mine ; and perhaps he was en- 
vying me one of them.” 

“ If he should fancy Leoni, you can be even with 
him and exchange — ” 

Blush for blush ! I was so surprised at the gen- 
uine suffusion of blushes, betraying a boyish coyness 
at this mere allusion to his apparent admiration of 
Amelia, that I left the sentence unfinished, and, hear- 
ing Amelia stirring, I hastily joined her, promising 
Leon, as I went, to meet him in the reception-room 
with Amelia as soon as she was ready to come. 

I took care not to confess how Leon had stolen a 
march on me during my desertion of the post I had 
promised to guard so vigilantly. - 

The look of anxiety and pain had given place to 
one of quiet assurance and calm hope in Amelia’s 
countenance. I passed my hand over her brow, to 
find it temperately cool ; and it seemed to me my 
ring, with its motto of hope, sparkled with a brighter 
lustre as it flashed across my sight, in the act of 
smoothing from that young brow all trace of “wrin- 
kled care ; ” and when Amelia’s smile of grateful 


STRIFE. 


l6l 

acknowledgment met mine, I saw hope dawning in 
her eyes, and plainly stamped on her forehead ! 

The moment I mentioned Leon, her instinctive 
delicacy appeared. 

Your father might not understand my consent to 
be introduced to your brother under these circum- 
stances ; and while Nannine’s presence insures the 
propriety of it, I fear the . misconstruction that might 
be placed on my meeting your brother in your 
father’s absence and without his sanction.” 

“ You do my father an injustice by your doubt,” I 
said. “ I never knew him to hesitate where the least 
claim on his generosity was apparent. Besides,” I 
continued, “ you can gratify him more than you im- 
agine with your account of his favorite. Mademoiselle 
Beaumont ! ” 

O Lavinia ! Lavinia ! how readily I adopted your 
artfulness !. 

The suggestion had a happy effect, and all doubt 
and reluctance were overcome. 

Mademoiselle Beaumont described all of you so 
exactly,” Amelia said, “ that when the count called 
my attention to you on the Corso one day, I imme- 
diately named you. A week after that, I saw you 
as you took seats near me in La Trinita di Monti. 
I was so sad at my own loneliness, when I saw your 
happiness with your father, sister, and brother, that 
I could hardly remain at the service. Once you 
looked in my face, and yet seemed not to know you 
were gazing directly in my eyes. You looked from 
my face to the row of pale faces in the stalls, and 
14 * L 


i 62 


STRIFE. 


seemed to be saddened by them. I fell on my knees 
to avoid looking at you, and my feelings overcame 
my self-control.” 

Then Paul de Meffray knew who we were at that 
time, and had arranged deliberately with his uncle, 
the Count Darree, to take his place as cicerone at 
St. Angelo ! He had never confessed it. Rome is 
surely the nursery of secrecy, I thought, and should 
I remain here I might acquire a taste for conspiracy. 
Conspiracy ! with a breathing witness of my actual 
part in it standing innocently before me ! Antonio 
might have indulged in his most sardonic smile at 
my expense, and I could not have disputed his 
right. 

“ When Mademoiselle Beaumont spoke of you to 
me,” I said, “ I promised not to mention the names 
of any of the parties concerned in your secret, and 
as yet my father knows nothing of her connection 
with the matter. If you do not object, I think it 
will be best to make him our confidant, and my 
brother and sister can remain ignorant of the share 
of Mademoiselle’s uncle in your misfortune, as her 
noble self-forgetfulness entitles her to our considera- 
tion in not exposing her relative further than she 
finds necessary.” 

Those are my feelings entirely; and I do not 
propose to accept of Mademoiselle Beaumont’s sacri- 
fice of fortune, to restore what has been lost of my 
inheritance in speculations for the increase of Church 
benefits. The cause was good, though the means 
were dishonestly employed, and all I demand is the 


STRIFE. 


163 

perfect restoration of my proper title to my name, 
and the acknowledgment of my right of inherit- 
ance. If for a moment I could forget the noble 
woman who is so bravely and unweariedly carrying 
out her sainted father’s purposes, I am not worthy 
of my own father’s stainless name ! ” 

There was a declaration that no Jesuit could have 
uttered ! If for a moment I had felt a fit of uneasi- 
ness, when I discovered we had been known so 
well, and that all the coincidents I had counted were 
the most natural results of deliberate plans on the 
parts of Count Darree, De Mefifray, old Lavinia, and 
unconsciously of Amelia herself — all suspicions of 
any base motive vanished on that assurance of 
Amelia’s perfect innocence of heart and simplicity 
of character. Under ordinary circumstances her 
frankness might have been the seal of a life-long 
friendship. 

You do not wear your scarf in the house,” I said, 
half questioning the matter, as I held toward Amelia 
the pane that she had worn after the fashion of the 
ciociare on her head. 

No, I never do, for it has always been an irk- 
.some addition to the weight of my own hair, which 
is quite heavy enough. Nita, my foster-sister, who 
is obliged to wear the pane always, according to an 
old law for the regulation of dress among the Con- 
tadini, has made this prejudice of mine a matter of 
frequent annoyance ; but mother Lavinia, always sen- 
sible and just, rebukes her interference, and comforts 
me by saying I have been very patient in submitting 


164 


STRIFE. 


to the degradation of this uniform for her sake, 
when I might have insisted on my right to adopt a 
costume more in accordance with my natural taste.” 

“ It is certainly very becoming,” I could not help 
saying; and a flush of pleasurable consciousness 
heightened the color that already warmed Amelia’s 
bright face. Looping her braids in Grecian links, 
she bound an end of one braid across the top of the 
head, and secured it again to the top of the loops 
at the back of the head with a golden arrow. I 
stood looking at this hasty and apparently unstudied 
toilette with undisguised admiration, when Amelia 
caught the reflection of my face in the mirror she 
was using. Turning suddenly, she said: 

“How different you are from what I supposed I 
should find in all ladies of your position! You con- 
ceal no emotion of pleasure or admiration with that 
cold indifferent manner that some noble women 
think essential to the distinctions of refinement.” 

Your candor of speech is a match for my inge- 
nuous manners, I thought, very much amused at the 
sagacious criticism of the high-born dames, who 
but too justly merited the opinion of one whose 
isolation had at least the advantage of preserving 
her good blood in its native purity and freshness. 
How the dames would have smiled at her '' charmmg 
naivete ! ” 

As we passed through Leoni’s room to the recep- 
tion-room, Amelia stopped a moment, and said: 

“ Call me Amelia ; Mademoiselle Beaumont per- 
sisted in addressing me as signora, and it almost 
interfered with my happiness in her society.” 


STRIFE. 165 

“Very well ; and I am Minnette to you, and not 
mademoiselle,” I agreed. 

The introduction of Amelia to Leon was happily 
carried off with my brother’s usual tact in situations 
that were embarrassing to many older heads. We 
all did justice to Nannine’s extempore meal, and 
with Leon’s hearty assistance the bouillon coupi^ and 
wine toast were entirely disposed of, when Nannine 
removed the dishes for our attack on the fruit bowl. 
There was a cornucopia of fresh preserved grapes, 
done up in grape leaves for each of us — Nannine 
prohibited fruit cake for Amelia and myself, so Leon 
refused to take any out of “ sheer resentment,” he de- 
clared — and by way of doing in Rome as the Romans 
do, we concluded our feast with those spicy little 
mandarins, a species of orange enjoyed nowhere so 
well as in Italy. It seems as if nature had, in the 
matter of diet as well as in every other consider- 
ation, been especially mindful of the productions 
of Italy. Where olive oil is so abundantly used 
in the preparation of food, those little oranges, 
broken open at the end of a meal, remove all traces 
of the oils, with their aromatic odor and pungent 
taste. 

During a pause in some lively chatting about 
the singularities Leon and I had observed in Roman 
people and customs, and Amelia’s questions about 
German institutions, Nannine laid a little bunch of 
pressed Alpine flowers before my brother, saying : 

“ Did you forget these, Monsieur Leon ? I found 
them after you took your herbarium away.” 


STRIFE. 


1 66 

“Yes, I did quite forget them,” he replied; then 
handing them to Amelia to admire their little snow- 
dresses of white velvet, and their orange-tipped sta- 
mens, he said : 

“ Signora, I found these Alpine blossoms in the 
Brenner Pass. Are they not beautiful ? ” 

“ They are, indeed. I never saw them before, and 
it seems incredible that anything so delicate could 
live on those snow peaks above the clouds.” 

“ But see,” replied Leon, “ how they are clothed 
in their warm winter dress ! This beautiful provi- 
sion of Providence for this sole mountain-flower, is 
to me a pleasing evidence of God’s peculiarly tender 
regard for the solitary ! The mountaineers watch 
these blossoms with almost jealous care ; while in 
our valleys, where bright flowers grow in our very 
paths, we crush millions of wee violets under our 
feet, or leave them unnoticed in the marshes and 
thickets ! ” 

As Leon continued his pretty allusion, that re- 
minded Amelia of her own solitary existence, al- 
though she was as far from accusing him of any 
personal application of a mere accidental thought as 
he was of intending any, I could not but reflect on 
the vast difference between men and women in this 
respect. 

Man may be possessed of the finest sensibility or 
intellectual feeling, and yet lack that quality of ap- 
prehension that distinguishes a true nioman’s senti- 
ment, and by which, like a sensitive plant, she intu- 


STRIFE. 167 

itively avoids whatever can wound the most delicate 
feelings. 

It is something of which woman should not com- 
plain, as it proves, in one point at least, her superi- 
ority. The Saviour recognized this difference, when 
at the feast his mother reminded him of a need that 
she perceived. He replied with a rebuke for her 
asking a miracle, but immediately afterward per- 
formed the miracle ! So the same voice that asked, 
“ Woman, what have I to do with thee ? ” was mute 
before still another’s lamentation ; answering her 
reproaches with tears, and making reparation of her 
loss, he performed another miracle — no less than 
the raising of the dead to life ! 

Surely man need not boast of a superiority that 
the Saviour contradicted by such deference to wo- 
man’s requests. 

Coming down to less divine authority, how many 
a queen mother and wife has stood between a surly 
ruler and the demands of his people. Ah ! woman 
has no need to ask for her rights ; she has only to 
assert her God-given power, never slighting that very 
quality of apprehension that man lacks, and she 
stands beside him, his equal — a helpmate indeed — 
so constituted by God, and acknowledged by man ! 

How poor Leon would have exclaimed at my use 
of his poetic thought, never dreaming he had unwit- 
tingly indulged his own fancy at Amelia’s expense. 
And yet in my heart I was sure I only responded to 
the ineffable sadness betrayed by the sudden pallor 
overspreading Amelia’s telltale face ! 


STRIFE. 


1 68 

Before we separated for the night, the wound was 
forgotten, and Amelia was highly amused at my 
brother’s exacting a promise that she would “ ap- 
pear at breakfast in the identical image of the Sig- 
nora Amelia, or he would conclude that he had been 
really imposed upon by some of Minnette’s witch- 


CHAPTER XVII. 


A RENDEZVOUS. 

M INNETTE ! ” “ Sister ! ” “Mademoiselle ! " “ My 
daughter ! ” 

Yes, the voices were actually those of my father, 
brother, sister, and Nannine, and I was sitting up in 
my bed, and they were standing beside it — Leoni 
and my father still in the wrappings they wore when 
they set out for Count Darree’s villa, and Nannine 
and my brother in dressing-gowns, thrown on has- 
tily, as people do in the middle of the night, when 
unexpectedly called up. 

“ What is the matter ? ” was my natural question. 
“ Oh, sister, how it frightened me to have you so 
long waking up ! ” said Leoni. 

“ Is that all ? ” I said, sleepily. “ If I had thought 
you were coming home to-night, I should have 
waited up,” Then a thought flashed across my 
drowsy senses, and I became as wide awake as any 
one could wish. 

“ Sister,” I said, in a whisper, you must sleep here 
in my bed; I have a friend in yours. Guess who?” 
“ I knew it ! ” exclaimed Leon. 

“ Of course you did,” I replied, 

“ That is n’t what I mean, Minnette. The Signora 
15 *69 


70 


STRIFE. 


Amelia is gone, and my father thought you knew 
where ! ” 

“ Impossible ! ” I said, hurrying Nannine with my 
gown and slippers, which were no sooner donned 
than I was in my sister’s room ; but there had been 
no doubt a hasty flight, and not a trace of Amelia 
but the tumbled bedclothes that had covered her. 

My father was the picture of despair when I re- 
entered my room; and what was my amazement to 
hear a mingling of voices in the reception-room, 
among which I clearly distinguished those of Count 
Darree and the Count de Meffray ! 

I became so agitated on fully realizing what was 
transpiring around me, without the least knowledge 
of the reason of it all, that I fek myself growing 
wild. 

“ Do, some one, tell me what this all means, or I 
shall lose my senses! ” I exclaimed, trying to seem 
only impatient, but, in fact, too hysterical to carry 
out the impression. 

“ I have been waiting for you to become fairly 
awake, my daughter,” replied my father, in his most 
quiet and reassuring tones ; “ and now that you realize 
that the young lady who accepted your hospitality 
has so strangely disappeared, I will explain that the 
Count Darree, and her brother, the Count de Meflray, 
came here with the hope of claiming her, and placing 
her under the protection of the Countess Darree, 
this very night.” 

There are some combative temperaments that will 
stop to quarrel with an absurdity at the block, where 


STRIFE. 


I7I 

all earthly questions are to be ended with their lives; 
and if ever I figure in a new series of illustrated 
Fox’s Martyrs, it will be in the attitude of an ex- 
postulator ! 

“ Why should they come to-night to alarm her, as 
they have most likely, when they knew she was safe 
here, after all the years she has been with strangers, 
where she was not properly protected ! ” I said, and 
never to my last moment will I forget the effect of 
those words. 

My brother and sister looked at each other with 
dumb amazement, Nannine betrayed actual fright, 
and my father exclaimed : 

Minnette ! can it be possible that you have been 
so unfortunate as to assist the countess in this terribly 
mistaken proceeding, and now attempt to cover her 
flight with insincere argument ! ” 

What was the sudden passion that flamed like 
fire into my very temples ! It was the first feeling 
of indignation at my own father ! 

“ Father,” I exclaimed, without a tremor now in 
my voice, did I ever tell or act an untruth to your 
knowledge ? ” 

“iW, my daughter — never intentionally; but you 
have never been tried by such a combination of in- 
fluences as have been brought to bear on you in this 
affair ! ” was the astoundingly calm reply. 

“ Then it is necessary for me to declare, that when 
Amelia was in her bed, we agreed to drive outside 
the walls to-morrow in a close carriage, if the sur- 
geon would give me permission to go; and that 


STRIFE. 


i;2 

have no more idea how or why she left that room 
than you have ! ” I said, positively, 

“ Oh, my daughter, you have removed a mountain 
of anxiety from my mind,” exclaimed my father. 
" And now let Nannine assist you to dress, so you can 
meet Count Darree and Count de Meffray with the 
same assurance.” 

Leon returned to his room to arrange his dress 
in a more presentable style, my sister removed her 
wrappings, and my father rejoined his inopportune 
guest, as I persisted in thinking, and in attributing 
Amelia’s surreptitious leave-taking to their undue 
haste in securing possession of her. But my con- 
jectures were of the most vague description. And 
not once did the idea occur to me that my father 
and sister’s return at that hour was a matter of sur- 
prise, considering the difficulty, to say nothing of 
the dangers of the road they were obliged to take. 
It was intended that I should receive that explana- 
tion after the most urgent question was settled; but, 
as usual with such “ ill-balanced, mercurial contriv- 
ances — in fact, a mere bundle of nerves,” as Dr. Leon 
declared I was — before the midnight conference 
ended, I received in one instant th^ complete shock, 
and charged the whole party with my electrical con- 
sternation. 

One point in common with the sisterhood I con- 
fess : I had a decided satisfaction in any unusual 
comeliness in my appearance, which, thanks to Dame 
Nature, was never revolting to the most fastidious 
observer ; and on the occasion of that midnight toi- 


STRIFE. 


173 


lette — my long curls left in half-ringleted disorder 
down my back, only brushed smoothly off my tem- 
ples, my brow very fair and white from my recent 
illness, and a warm tint that my interrupted slumbers 
had imparted to my cheeks, heightening the glow in 
my surprised eyes, that threw out a little gleam of 
girlish pride at the inquiring maiden in my mirror — 
justified the Count de Meffray’s momentary forget- 
fulness of his business, when he came forward to 
receive me in the reception-room. • 

It might have been that my color suggested the 
count’s sudden flush ; but what wonder if I not only 
turned but felt pale^ when Count de Meffray and 
Count Darree, who had screened from my observa- 
tion any other persons in the room, stepped aside, 
and I confronted the Director General of Police — 
the subordinate to Count Darree, who was Minister 
of the Interior — Nita, Antonia’s sister, and a com- 
mon, coarse-looking woman, whose physiognomy 
was the most forbidding I had ever met ! 

My father had purposely refrained from telling me 
whom I was to encounter, in order that the high 
functionary who had come to investigate the affair 
might read in my emotion on meeting him my inno- 
cence of any design in Amelia’s escape. 

The papal officer bowed obsequiously at the 
Count Darree’s introduction, and his countenance 
and posture were as rigid and immovable as the 
rows of marble figures lining the halls of the Capi- 
tol; while Count Darree, after leading me to my own 

15* 


1/4 


STRIFE. 


easy chair, placed by De Meffray, proceeded as fol- 
lows : 

“ Mademoiselle de Stalberg, the baron, your father, 
has already informed us of your share in our sur- 
prise at the unaccountable departure of your guest, 
the young Countess de Meffray! We came here 
with the expectation of confirming your generous 
faith in the story and character of a truly noble girl, 
whose sad misfortune we hastened to terminate by 
restoring her to the affectionate care of her brother, 
now her only near relative, and of removing her 
from the uncertain guardianship that is unsuitable 
for her — though I believe it has been invariably 
kind and devoted — to the protection of the Count- 
ess Darree, until there was time to make different ar~ 
rangements. In order that you may be assured of 
our genuine knowledge of the facts I have only in- 
timated, and that you may appreciate my motive in 
this unseasonable and urgent examination — as it 
may seem to you — I will confess that I am more 
influenced by my sense of justice in bringing the 
treacherous parties who have conspired to ruin the 
prospects of a helpless girl, and the peace of her 
family, to the punishment due to such a base scheme, 
than from any alarm for the safety of the countess. 
Moreover, I am informed that certain parties in the 
plot have attempted to throw the onus of this fraud 
on our Church. This malicious slander shall be re- 
futed, if out of my own private fund I use dollar for 
dollar in proving the defamation on the perpetra- 
tors I ” 


STRIFE. 


175 


Ah, Count Darree, like all pompous, self-import- 
ant personages, you overstrained the effect of your 
harangue ! 

A wise inquisitor, not seeking some private ad- 
vantage by making grandiloquent speeches in the 
ears of the director-general, to be carried straight to 
an applauding council, would have been solemnly 
quiet in questioning a sick girl at midnight, letting 
the hour, circumstances, and the anxiety of those 
around her, impress her with the awfulness of the 
occasion. 

I had refused to let Amelia talk of her trouble 
until the morning, and was fortunately able to de- 
clare that I knew nothing of her convictions or in- 
tentions regarding Count de Meffray’s right to claim 
her and punish her enemy. So, though I was pained 
by the evident discomfort of the Count de Meffray, 
whose pride and generous nature suffered in regard- 
ing me as an unwilling witness at the bar of the In- 
quisition, and by my father’s looking distressingly 
annoyed, I could have laughed at the ludicrous as- 
pect my perverse sense of the ridiculous took in, at 
one glance, at the swelling importance of Count 
Darree, the stiff pose of the director-general, and 
the half-sullen, half-awed attention of Nita and the 
tramp, to a harangue that would result in nothing, 
even when Count Darree would give me a chance to 
speak ! 

I congratulated myself that my father was igno- 
rant of Mademoiselle Beaumont’s connection with 
the affair, and I imagined how Count Darree would 


76 


STRIFE. 


treat a Protestant of her high order and lowly mien, 
if it was in his power. To save her, I thought, Amelia 
has fled for the present, and the secret of Mademoi- 
selle Beaumont will never pass my lips till she un- 
seals them herself! 

After another five minutes’ speech — in which I was 
assured of the ‘^ability of the director-general to 
bring the whole affair to open judgment, the ap- 
preciation of my probable wish to be silent on the 
matter confided to me, and the injury I would be 
doing to Amelia in withholding any information of 
her plans, and the disgrace that would attach to my- 
self, as a foreigner, a Protestant, and a woman, in 
the prejudiced opinions of all interested in an affair 
that could no longer be concealed from public ob- 
servation ” — the Count Darree finally remarked: 

And now. Mademoiselle de Stalberg, will you hear 
the answers of these two witnesses — meaning Nita 
and the gypsy ; or do you desire to speak, and not 
be troubled with evidence you may already pos- 
sess ?” 

“ Pardon me. Count Darree,” I said, “ if it will oc- 
casion you any discomfort. I have not wished to 
appear rude in preventing your kind explanation, 
but permit me to assure you that I am utterly unable 
to assist in this matter of the Countess de Mef- 
fray. She was so unhappy when she came to me, 
that I only thought of comforting her; and I heard 
nothing from her of her story that I did not know 
already through my father’s account, and the reports 
you have heard. If her identity has been proved, I 
am as yet ignorant of the good fortune.” 


STRIFE. 


177 


Even the director-general collapsed at this auda- 
ciously cool reply of a girl suposed to be half-petri- 
fied with awe. 

I think my father, with all his dignity of character 
and gravity of judgment, was the only one who 
caught an inkling of my view of the effect of that 
answer. At all events, he cleared his throat, and 
applied his handkerchief to his lips before he found 
voice to prevent Count Darree’s urging me further, 
when the latter recovered from his absolute “amaze- 
ment at my hardihood,” as every line in his visage 
betrayed. 

“ Count Darree,” he said, with a manner that com- 
manded attention, “ my daughter is, as I supposed, 
interested in the unfortunate young Countess de 
Meffray for her own sake alone, and her motives 
in encouraging her to enjoy the hospitality of her 
brother’s friends are such as we would attribute to 
any girlish sympathy for another. If you are satis- 
fied that my conclusion is correct, I will beg to have 
my daughter excused from any further excitement 
to-night, as her invalid state requires some con- 
sideration.” 

While my father spoke, I was conscious that the 
tramp looked at me with an increasing curiosity, 
that reached its culmination when I raised my hand 
to push my hair off my face, as it had fallen forward. 
Turning to the director-general, she whispered a 
hurried sentence, and again fixed her eyes on me 
with a wandering look, not at any particular point, 
I thought, when the director-general asked Count 
M 


178 


STRIFE. 


Darree’s permission to speak. The count changed 
color, and seemed embarrassed by the boldness of 
the request, and yet could not exactly refuse it. 

“ I wish to remind the lady, your daughter, sig- 
nor,” he said, “ that in taking evidence in a case so 
important as the one before us, we are not permitted 
to receive mere assertions, contrary to facts discern- 
ible to our own actual perceptions.” 

What do you mean ? ” was exclaimed in chorus 
by each male present, not excepting the Count de 
Meffray. Each one’s indignation at the charge of 
my untruthfulness was different in kind, but equal in 
degree. 

But hastily approaching me, the gypsy forgetting 
herself and eagerly coming close beside me, the 
director-general asked, with a sardonic smile, “ May 
I ask how mademoiselle came in possession of the 
opal ring on her finger ! ” 

“ Opal ring ! ” I exclaimed, and to my horror, in 
place of my mother’s diamond ring, an opal flamed 
on my finger ! 

I was speechless and faint, and my turn had come. 
How could I utter the words that would condemn 
me, and yet were perfectly true ? 

“ Where did you get the ring, my daughter ? ” my 
father asked. 

“ Father, I never saw it before ! ” was my answer, 
and a blessed unconsciousness shut out from my 
sight the faces of my friends. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


PARTING. 

W HEN I recovered from my faint, I found only 
the Count de Meffray remaining, as my 
father had insisted upon it, to hear whatever I 
might be able to state. 

He expressed his sorrow and regret at the pain- 
fulness of my position, and seemed so affected by 
my emotion, expressed in unrestrained sobbing on 
my father’s breast, that I resolved at once to use 
my judgment in the settlement of my own account- 
ability with the brother of my fugitive friend, who 
was now the greatest sufferer, I considered. 

Requesting Leoni and my brother to leave me 
with the count and my father alone, I said : 

“ Count de Meffray, though I have spoken the 
truth in all my assertions to-night, it is in my power 
to serve you on one condition.” 

“ If it will not distress or tax you in any way, I 
am ready to accede to any condition you may sug- 
gest, Mademoiselle Minnette ; and from such gener- 
osity and noble self-forgetfulness as you have dis- 
played, I need fear no imposition.” 

I could not resist the impulse to hold out my 
hand ; and the manly way with which he took it, in 

179 


i8o 


STRIFE. 


acknowledgment of my thanks for his trust in me, 
shook my composure again, for a moment, before I 
could proceed. 

“ First,” I said, “ is it in your power to forbid any 
further search for the parties who have knowingly 
or ignorantly occasioned or assisted in this abduc- 
tion of your sister?” 

“ Certainly,” he replied ; “ and if, as we begin to 
surmise, my sister has absented herself voluntarily 
from Rome, to shield any one whom she fears will 
be punished with the severity such guilt certainly 
merits, I will aid her in her purposes, if she will 
only permit me to share the confidence and affec- 
tion I have already been so sadly deprived of” 

My father’s amazement cannot be described when 
I declared that the secret was in my possession, but 
it belonged to one whom all the terrors of the In- 
quisition could not force me to betray ; but if Count 
de Meffray could keep faith with a heretic^ I would 
freely impart all I knew of the circumstances, on 
his solemn oath to abide by my condition of secrecy, 
taken in the presence of my father. “ And,” I said, 
*‘I may afford a clew to some plan for Amelia’s re- 
covery.” 

I will never lose the vivid impression of that vow ! 
Standing before me and my father, with a face white 
as death. Count de Meffray raised his right hand and 
affirmed : 

“ By my mother's spirit, and as I hope to enjoy the 
communion of all whom I love, hereafter, I promise 
never to use one word of your confession, against 
any one living or dead ! ” . 


STRI FE. 


l8l 


Then I told all I knew, — every word of the story 
as Mademoiselle Beaumont related it at Immergrlin, 
and all that Amelia or old Lavinia had said ; and if, 
in the course of my recital, tears glistened on my 
father and Count de Meffray’s cheeks, they were 
worthy expressions of such grand emotions as their 
strong manly hearts were capable of entertaining for 
the noble sacrifice of a woman, like Mademoiselle 
Beaumont’s. 

“Evidently,” said my father, “old Lavinia, who 
has disappeared as well as Amelia, must have been 
admitted by her to Leoni’s room, and, availing her- 
self of your promise to lend her your mother’s ring 
with the motto that has served her before, she took 
it from your finger, replacing it with the opal that 
the gypsy woman recognized as one Lavinia received 
from her — with several other valuables belonging 
to the countess — and from which she declared old 
Lavinia would not part, except for some great ser- 
vice. To the director-general your denial of all 
knowledge as to how the ring came on your finger, 
was of course proof positive that you had felt your- 
self betrayed into a tissue of falsehoods ; and so far 
as he is concerned, and probably the Count Darree 
also, you will rest under the imputation until Amelia 
or Mademoiselle Beaumont can clear you, by de- 
claring your innocence.” 

“ I care for nothing so much as my truthful repu- 
tation,” I replied ; “ but with your and the Count de 
Meffray’s support, I can bear the temporary disturb- 
of unjust suspicion, for the sake of two noble 

i6 


ance 


i82 


STRIFE. 


women, who have heavier burdens, without any of 
the consolation I am afforded.” 

A knock at the door was answered by my father’s 
summoning both my sister and brother, the former 
holding in her hand a little strip of paper that Nan- 
nine had found tied in the corner of a handkerchief 
that was under my pillow. 

It read, “ Lavinia says you will understand the ex- 
change. I am compelled to absent myself for the 
sake of my noble friend, whose relative is dying, and 
sends for me to receive proofs. Certain spies are 
trying to find them, for a reward. Tell my brother 
all you know. He is too noble to permit injustice 
to the one deserving our everlasting gratitude, as 
you do that of yours, hopeful — and joyous almost.” 
Signed, “ One of Minnette’s Witches.” 

My father and the count read the paper in silence, 
and I immediately destroyed it when the latter 
returned it, almost smiling as he glanced at Leon ; 
and I gave an assenting nod to the mute inquiry 
“ if the characteristic quotation was not from Leon’s 
remarks.” 

A sudden light flashed in the window, and what 
was my astonishment when Leon drew open the 
inside latticed shutters, and a sunbeam darted across 
the room ! 

It was morning. The daylight revealed the in- 
roads of the night’s exciting scenes on all our pale, 
wan countenances, and Count de Meffray, declining 
my father’s invitation to remain to breakfast with us, 
left us, promising to call in the evening. 


STRIFE. 


183 


Two hours later, we were warned to leave Rome 
that very day, by Count Darree ; and the Count de 
Meffray was ordered to return to Lorraine, under the 
command of the Count de I’Etoile, his uncle ! 

Antonio placed Nita under the care of the Sisters 
of the Sacred Heart in the Convent of Monte Piete, 
The brigand woman was held by the director- 
general- till her charges could be proved true or 
false ; and, with an indescribable weariness of spirit, 
I said ‘good-by’ to Rome, as it faded from our 
sight through the gloom that settled over the Cam- 
pagna, where we parted that evening with the Count 
de Meffray. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


A HAPPY INTERVAL. 

T he incidents of my last chapter occurred in 
November of 1847 — an eventful year to Italy, 
whose actual history furnished more marvels than 
the most arbitrary fiction could exhibit. Neverthe- 
less, as one of a group drawn into the outer circle 
of the great maelstrom of a revolution, I can fulfil 
my promise of a romance to the reader, without en- 
croaching on the prerogatives of the historian, for 
whose wearisome dates and details my reader would 
not thank me, were I to risk the charge of presump- 
tion, on the authority of the hosts of scribes who 
have furnished volumes of Italian history, which, all 
collected, might rival in proportion the library of the 
British Museum. It was once said, “ Minnette de Stal- 
berg presents all her acquaintances under the grace- 
ful veil of ideality, and through that medium even 
those whom she dislikes become interesting, in 
spite of her prejudices ! ” 

Let any novelist deny, if he can, the power of such 
an incentive to respond to the requests of friends, 
who urge with peculiar pertinacity the oft-repeated 
remark, “Your life has been so eventful that you 
ought to write a book ! ” , 


184 


STRIFE. 


185 

Well, my autobiography has pretty nearly assumed 
that formidable proportion, and a certain sprite who 
assists my memory — a novelist would say, the muse 
who ministers to my imagination — penetrates the 
most threatening clouds with her starry eyes, and 
whispers, “ Come on, this is sport to me : you paint 
the storms, and I will furnish a rainbow, and the 
good people will smile and declare it was all Min- 
nette’s witchery ! ” 

So, dear reader, this is my last apology, my last 
pause, in a fiction running parallel with facts. So 
fly with me from the “ author's de 7 tf and 

“We soon shall dwell by the azure sea 
Of serene and golden Italy ! ” 

From November, 1847, to February, 1849, we skip 
an interval of fifteen months. In that period, Paul 
de Meflray’s uncle, the Count de I’Etoile, died. The 
Count Darree was assassinated one month after our 
departure from Rome — a fate to be deplored, al- 
though, like a piratical politician steering through 
revolutionary struggles, he met his reward for con- 
cealing his true colors, at the hands of one of his 
own secret party, who confused Count Darree’s name 
with that of the enemies to the Liberal cause. 

“Amelia’s identity,” we heard, “ was clearly proved 
by Emil Beaumont, who, in his last hours, at the 
hermitage in the Abruzzi, displayed the deepest con- 
trition for his guilty means of furthering the cause 
of the Jesuits in PTance.” 

In January of 1848 — two months after the flight 
16 * 


STRIFE. 


1 86 

of Pius IX. from Rome — Mademoiselle Beaumont, 
Amelia, and old Lavinia arrived in Sicily, joining 
us at the Hotel Trinacria. A few days later. Count 
de Meffray arrived from Lorraine, with the intelli- 
gence of his uncle’s decease, and his having be- 
queathed to Amelia, the Countess de Meffray, his 
entire fortune, on condition that she would refrain 
from prosecuting her claims on the Society of 
Jesuits for the revenues involved in their losses 
through the misrepresentation of Emil Beaumont, 
as her father, the Count de Meffray, had granted the 
use of the income to the Church, supposing Paul de 
Meffray to be his only heir, for whom his Italian 
estates gave sufficient to support his title of Count 
de I’Etoile, to which he w^ould succeed on the death 
of his uncle. 

Through the influence of the Count de TEtoile — 
Amelia’s uncle — the Count Darree was induced to 
dismiss the brigand woman who assisted in Emil 
Beaumont’s plot, and, by means best known to him- 
self and Paul de Meffray, the director-general, my 
agreeable inquisitor, was prevented from institut- 
ing further proceedings ; consequently Amelia and 
Paul de Meffray, my father and old Lavinia were 
the only ones besides myself who knew the real 
name of Ermitano, as the gypsies had called Emil 
Beaumont. 

Mademoiselle Beaumont and the Countess de 
Meffray found, as all friends do, that a financial dis- ♦ 
pute was a great bar to their mutual happiness, and 
the Baron de Stalberg was appealed to fbr a settle- 
ment of the question. 


STRIFE. 


187 


He humorously balanced the consideration of a 
newly found title on one side, and the superiority 
of age by several years on the other, and then, de- 
claring that neither party had a right to assume the 
decision of a question already provided for by the 
will of the late Count de I’Etoile, he commended 
Mademoiselle Beaumont’s principle in offering in- 
demnification, and the Countess de Meffray’s dis- 
cernment in refusing from Mademoiselle Beaumont 
what her own uncle had placed out of her power to 
accept. For Mademoiselle’s further consolation, my 
father remarked to her privately that the influence 
of the Abbe de I’Etoile had perverted her uncle’s 
principles, and alienated him from his father and 
brother; and while it was cruel to victimize a help- 
dess girl, the sin of the first offender had only re- 
turned where it originated, when the family of the 
abbe suffered. “ They have redeemed their own dis- 
grace in pardoning your uncle’s,” my father added ; 
“and even your father’s sense of justice would have 
been completely satisfied, had his life been spared 
to accomplish all that you have done in restoring 
Amelia to her friends and making her your debtor. 
To press any further obligation on her would defeat 
your own generous intention, my dear Mademoiselle; 
so consider the question fairly and justly disposed 
of!” 

During the time passed at the hermitage of Emil 
Beaumont — part of a ruined abbey — by Amelia 
and Mademoiselle, old Lavinia went to Rome to see 
her daughter Nita, and was informed that she had 


88 


STRIFE. 


already entered her novitiate, determining to remain 
in the convent as one of the sisterhood. I forbear 
further comment than this, that “ in every evil we 
may find some benefit,” and it would be a blessing if 
all the envious — those baleful shades of society, who 
poison our truest happiness with their hidden sting — 
could be induced to bury themselves in a like seclu- 
sion. Nita was not jealous of Count de Meffray’s 
regard for Amelia; she had no such excuse for her 
feeling of dislike for Amelia, and indifference toward 
her mother: it was envy — the attribute of the arch- 
fiend from whose agency society is never safe, and 
imparted most freely to natures of which Nita was a 
coarse but true type. 

In Antonio, old Lavinia found as little consola- 
tion ; but Amelia’s faithful and affectionate gratitude 
for all her care, seemed to supply all the sunshine 
of the old woman’s existence. 

“ Mother Lavinia must never part from me,” 
Amelia declared ; and the look that accompanied 
old Lavinia’s reply conveyed as much assurance as 
her words, that she was in no danger of making such 
a trial of Amelia’s gratitude. 

To crown our happiness in those golden days in 
Sicily, Dr. Leon, Madame, and Ethel joined us, and 
for several weeks it seemed as if our skies were to 
be all smiles for the future, and our walks all flowers. 
But until we enter the land where there are no part- 
ings and no graves, perfect and uninterrupted hap- 
piness cannot be the portion of the most favored 
mortal. 


STRIFE. 


189 


The doctor was recalled to Mahren Castle by his 
brother, acting for the king, who required Dr. Lion’s 
attendance at a consultation regarding the health of 
the queen, Madame and Ethel going with him. 

The Countess de Meffray, the Count de I’Etoile, 
her brother, and Mademoiselle Beaumont accom- 
panied them as far as Immergrlin, where the latter 
promised to meet us on our arrival, after her visit to 
Lorraine, with Amelia and Paul. 

The correspondence agreed upon between Amelia 
and myself was continued as regularly as that of 
Paul and Leon while we remained in Sicily; but 
suddenly it ceased, and we could only conjecture the 
reason till one never-to-be-forgotten day, that found 
us at the most beautiful of cPll the garden-spots in 
the world — Sorrento. 


CHAPTER XX. 


INCOGNITO. 


E had chosen the Hotel Tasso for our resi- 



V V dence at Sorrento, and, held by the enchant- 
ments of the place, we had been only loiterers there 
for several months, although my father’s perfect 
restoration to health, and my invigorated tone, left 
no excuse for our continued absence from Immer- 


grun, 


With the same fancy that all travellers are sup- 
posed to have for identifying with places of inter- 
est their productions or suggestions through poets, 
painters, or sculptors, I was poring over the pages 
of Tasso’s “Jerusalem Delivered” one morning, on 
the balcony that overlooks the cliffs on which stands 
the house where Tasso was born. 

Leon had gone into the town to select some or- 
naments I had wished for in Sorrento-wood, inlaid 
in mosaic, of a bright coloring, and graceful designs 
peculiar to the workmanship of Sorrento artisans. 

My sister listened to a canto of the “ Jerusalemme ” 
that I read to her, and then went to attend to some 
preparations for the packing of baggage that was to 
be forwarded in advance of our return home. 


190 


My father, joining me a few minutes after Leoni 
had left me, remarked : 

“ I am rather surprised at your remaining here, 
my daughter, when a patient little donkey is waiting 
in the garden for some one to occupy that empty 
saddle, so inviting with its fresh linen covering. 
Why did you not go with Leoni to the fabriquef 
“ I have no better excuse for my bad taste than 
the old one, my dear father — a disposition to neglect 
all rational enjoyment for the easy indulgence of my 
imagination with the unwholesome food of poets ! ” 

“ Well, I am going to drive in a vettura to Vice?. 
Would you like to accompany me?” 

“ I think not, this morning,” I replied. Brother 
expects to find me here on his return; and Nannine 
is under a cloud, that I cannot account for; so I 
must devote an hour or so to her.” 

“You are never wanting for reasons, for anything 
you do,” replied my father, half laughing, as Leoni 
joined us, prepared for the drive, and Nannine fol- 
lowed to know if I intended to accompany them. 
When I had given my answer in the negative, Leoni 
said, as if in reply to my father’s remark : 

“ Sister, have you forgotten the excuse you made, 
when you were about eight years old, for playing a 
song, one Sunday, when Leon interrupted you ? ” 

“ Yes,” I said, “ I have no recollection of it at all.” 
“When Leon looked very gravely at you, and 
said, ' Minnette, you are playing a song on Sunday, 
and it is wicked, even if it is your favorite tune,’ you 
looked as grave as he, and whispered, ‘ How can it 


192 


STRIFE. 


be wicked to practise what I mean to sing when I 
go to heaven ? ’ ” 

My father burst into a hearty laugh at this absurd 
recollection ; and Nannine’s cloud was considerably 
diminished to all appearance, when the vettura 
drove out the gate, with Antonio, and left me with 
her alone. 

Nannine, sit with me on the balcony,” I said, as 
soon as the carriage had disappeared. I wish you 
to tell me some of the old legends of Sorrento.” 

“ May I bring some fruit for you, inia cara ? ” 

“ Indeed you may,” I replied ; the very sugges- 
tion gives me an appetite.” 

I improved the interval of her absence in the en- 
joyment of a revery. Leaning over the railing of 
the balcony, with the book carelessly held in one 
hand, I glanced at a fly-leaf, where I had scribbled 
the motto, Spes, Speranza, and Espirance^ my name 
in German text, and the date of my beginning of the 
poem. Then the opal ring that Amelia had refused 
to take when she restored my mother’s ring, attract- 
ed my notice. It was an oriental opal of great value, 
and as I watched its changing colors, as if sparks of 
fire were escaping from it, I thought how appropri- 
ately it was called in the . East the flaming opal, 
when Nannine caught me by my dress, exclaiming : 

” Mademoiselle, your book is gone, and you almost 
followed it into the sea ! ” 

“ Oh dear, how provoking ! ” I said, when I saw 
my book sailing over the waves, its gilt edges flash- 
ing back saucy glances, as if mocking at my vexa- 


STRIFE. 193 

tion. “ It was Leon’s book, and I have not finished 
it!” 

The next moment I could have laughed at Nan- 
nine’s wo-begone countenance ; but I was astonished 
into a fit of sobriety by the superstitious terror with 
which she shuddered, and said : 

“ I do believe the spirits, that look through the 
water with eyes like fire at night, were trying to daz- 
zle you even in the daylight, and draw you into the 
waves through their dreadful charm I ” • 

“You certainly cannot be serious in saying any- 
thing so absurd ! ” I exclaimed. 

“ It is true, mademoiselle ; and in the cave of St. 
Anthony there is a votive light always burning be- 
fore the blessed St. Anthony, who keeps those bale- 
ful fires from harming the faithful.” 

Here was a fearful dash of cold water over my 
private speculations on the same uncertain ground, 
and there was no small degree of chagrin in my re- 
mark : 

“ I can well believe in the existence of the shrine, 
and I would venture on the certainty of a money- 
box in the vicinity.” 

I repented my ungracious speech to my faithful 
bonne^ and restored her composure with caresses 
that never failed to comfort her, before I explained 
the phosphorescent lights that had been imposed 
on her credulity as evil spirits by a crafty, money- 
loving priesthood. Extremes of monkish fanaticism 
are, after all, parallel with that morbid indulgence 
of the imagination in ultra-spiritualism, I thought; 


194 


STRIFE. 


and, hereafter, whatever favors may be granted me 
through indications of ministering angels, in dreams 
or signs, I will regard it an unlawful and unhallowed 
means to invoke or endeavor to force revelations. 

This digestion of Nannine’s unfortunate remark 
was accompanied with the most cheerful talk on her 
part, and the satisfactory disposal of a basket of fruit 
placed on the floor between our chairs, as Nannine’s 
lap was occupied by a bunch of sewing, and my 
white dress was the last one of my allowance for the 
week. 

“ Sister, I have some news for you ! ” 

Jumping up, I ran through the dining-hall into 
the garden, to answer the cheery greeting of Leon, 
who saw me through the open doors, as he entered 
the main walk on a little white donkey no larger 
than a Newfoundland dog. 

But the news were destined to wait. 

As the donkey walked up to the door, the very 
picture of gravity, a great bundle of purchases, pen- 
dent on either side from a strap thrown across his 
back, and Leon seated behind them, utterly uncon- 
scious of his ludicrous appearance, as he sat as 
straight as possible, his feet nearly touching the 
ground, I burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, 
that was resented from an unexpected quarter. 

The donkey-boy, who had waited Leon’s return, 
stepped up to take the bridle as Leon attempted to 
scramble off, when the little animal, incensed at my 
want of respect for his gravity, turned short around 
with a fearful bray, and, throwing Leon head fore- 


STRIFE. 


195 


most into the nearest grass-plot, and growing more 
exasperated at Leon’s shouts of laughter, he gave 
the donkey-boy a kick with his flying heels, and, 
sending him a complete somersault over Leon, 
rushed out of the gate, broke the bundles, and scat- 
tered our ornaments among the astonished peasants 
collected in the road. 

My father came just in time to witness the capture 
of the donkey and the gathering up of the wrecked 
ornaments. 

“ Is any one hurt ? ” he asked. 

“ Nothing but the donkey’s feelings,” replied 
Leon, pouring half a hatful of extra baioches in the 
donkey-boy’s hands, who walked off with a grin of 
satisfaction. 

I assisted my brother in wiping the dust from the 
unfortunate ornaments — the only harm they sus- 
tained, with the exception of a few trifling breaks 
that could be easily repaired ; and when Antonio, 
whose brow was more lowering than I had seen it 
since we left Rome, left the sitting-room, I asked 
for Leon’s promised news. Producing a letter from 
Ethel, he read the statement that Amelia and Paul 
de Meffray had returned with Mademoiselle Beau- 
mont to Immergrlin, and, leaving her there, had 
proceeded to Rome ! 

“ But,” said Leon, that was three months since ; 
and is n’t it strange that this letter should be so long 
on its way, and that we have heard nothing from 
the Count or Amelia ? ” 

A strange interruption prevented my reply — a 


STRIFE. 


196 

prolonged dull, heavy sound of a signal-gun across 
the bay, followed the next moment by a returning 
salute from the fortress at Castelamare 

We hurried to my father, and found him with sev» 
eral papers and letters open on the table beside him, 
while his face was ghastly pale. 

To Leon’s inquiries, he seemed unable to reply, 
and Antonio answered : 

“The Count de I’Etoile has been arrested for sym- 
pathy with the Liberal movement in Italy.” 

“Paul arrested!” exclaimed Leon; “and where is 
Amelia? ” 

“ She was last seen with my mother between 
Rome and Naples, and if she is discovered by the 
guards from Gaeta, she will be confined in the for- 
tress till His Holiness is restored to the temporal 
power I ” 

“ What in all the world can Amelia have to do 
with the restoration of — ” 

“ My son,” said my father, hastily, recovering from 
the first shock of the exciting news, “ the facts are 
too evident from these papers to be disputed, and 
the precedents too numerous of unjust imprison- 
ment during civil conflicts, to leave any cause for 
surprise.” Dismissing Antonio, he continued : “ I 
have news of the landing of French troops at Civita 
Vecchia, of Austrian invasions in the north, and 
Spanish invasions in the southern provinces, and the 
prospect for a general war is imminent. We must 
trust to the caution and shrewdness of Lavinia for 


STRIFE. 197 

Amelia’s escape from Italy in safety, and hasten our 
own departure for Immergriin.” 

“ What can be the matter with Antonio ? Nan- 
nine’s strange conduct implies some apprehension. 
Can she suspect Antonio of treachery?” 

It was I who proposed that question, as a whole 
“ sea of troubles ” rolled over my heart with the con- 
sciousness that this day was the end of my childish 
gayety of heart, and a future of grave anxieties must 
be my portion — who could tell me for how long? 

Too depressed to listen to my father’s instructions 
to Antonio and Nannine for immediate preparations 
for our departure from Sorrento on the following day, 
I went to the balcony again, to find a melancholy 
consolation in the sad moaning of the waves, that 
seemed to intone their dirge of “ grief too sad for 
song ” with more than wonted solemnity. 

And what a mockery was the splendor of the 
heavens, smiling above the tossing waves and the 
agony of my suspense ! 

The day was — Italian; the air ethereal balm ; the 
sky a golden arch, vaulting grandly over the deep, 
mysterious blue of the Mediterranean. Sorrento 
was blooming with the luxuriance of Eden. Ter- 
race on terrace rose receding from the sea ; parterres 
of flowers, screened from the sun by bowers of or- 
ange-blossoms, even while the golden fruit of an 
earlier season hung from interlacing boughs. 

Sorrento is peopled with invisible ministers to 
every sense of enjoyment, and even my troubled 
17* 


STRIFE. 


198 

breast was beguiled into a sense of repose by its 
sweet enchantment ! 

Inhaling, with the freshness of the sea, mingled 
odors of violet, hayacinth, magnolia, and orange- 
blossom, I heard an evening hymn chanted by a 
procession of monks, going from a shrine in the 
valley to their monastery on the mountain, night- 
ingales trilling an accompaniment, and the ocean 
breezes murmuring a responsive Amen ! 

Looking into the waves, I thought of my book 
they had carried away, and then the scenes in the 
“ Jerusalemme” were pictured to my mind. This rock- 
bound city, exposed to the broad sweep of the waves, 
illustrates the Siege, I thought. And in the rest- 
less surging of the sea I traced the origin of Tasso’s 
boldest soarings, as well as the most delicate imagery 
of the Jerusalemme.” The blue waves, in their long 
lines of diamond-netted armor, with gleaming white 
crests, came, . like the hosts of the Crusaders against 
the Paynim city, only to dash against a mighty bar- 
rier, to be broken, driven back, and overwhelmed 
by the multitude of illimitable waves, rising ever, and 
rolling in from the great sea beyond ! “ Thus far 

shalt thou go !” ay, and at the Great Captain’s man- 
date, Peace ! be still ! ” even these waves must rest 
in calm silence. Oh, that the strife so threatening 
in this land were ended ! 

From the blue mist that envelops Capri I saw a 
sail emerge, and as it rose and fell on the billows, a 
stream of phosphorescent light, so alarming to Nan- 
nine, glanced in the shadow of the canvas. I had 


STRIFE. 


199 


intended to go that very night to the cave of St. An- 
thony, and dispel all her doubts by my experiments 
on an amber necklace, in the presence of the saint’s 
effigy. But I must lose that sight. Then I thought 
with regret that none of the minstrels who came 
daily to the albergo had sung any of the songs of 
Tasso. Three hundred years before, a beautiful Ne- 
apolitan lady, Portia Rossi, had come to this very 
house as the bride of Bernado Tasso. And on this 
balcony the gentle sister of the poet Tasso watched 
in vain for her brother’s return to her, when her 
mother had died, and her home was desolate, till 
one evening he came in disguise — 

A grating of the boat’s keel on the beach below 
the cliff interrupted my thought, and looking down, 
I saw the boat I had noticed before, with the sails 
dropped, and a party of minstrels, with zittah, man- 
dolin, and harp, leaving the beach and coming to- 
ward the rocky stairway that led to our garden ! 

The harper was evidently the eldest of the party, 
and I was regarding his white beard and gray locks 
with a feeling of awe akin to that inspired by Father 
Beaumont, when, to my astonishment, the old man 
raised his eyes to my face and flashed at me a glance 
of joyful recognition ! 

But the next moment I ridiculed my own folly in 
being startled at a mistake, evidently, of the dim 
vision of age. And I was half ashamed when, as if 
my surprise had been observed, the harper removed 
his hat with an indescribable grace, and said : 

“ Pardon, signorina, if my glance was bold : my 


200 


STRIFE. 


imagination was so influenced by the power of this 
scene, and of the associations of Sorrento with all 
that is spiritual in my nature, that for a moment I 
mistook you, in your white robe, for one of those 
spirits, fairies, or nymphs, who have their haunts at 
Sorrento.” 

“You are a poet,” I said, responding to the good 
will of the minstrel’s remark, and if an improvisatore 
also,. you have come opportunely ; for my father, like 
Saul, is in great heaviness of spirit this evening, and 
the songs of Tasso, in the poet’s own home, may 
have power to soothe him. If you will remain at 
the albergo till our dinner-hour, my father will hear 
your music at least.” 

“ The signorinais gracious, and her encouragement 
is a good omen of the success of a tour just begun.” 
And with a gracia in chorus, the minstrels went 
around by a path leading to the garden. I directed 
Antonio to give them refreshment, and joined my 
father in the sitting-room. 

I had not time to tell them of the arrival of the 
new minstrels from Capri, when L^on came flying 
into the room, his face radiant with delight, and in 
his hand he held the lost book. 

“Is n’t it a remarkable coincident! ” he exclaimed, 
“that a boat carrying some friends of De Meflray’s 
to the fortress at Capri, should pick up this book 
and carry it straight to him ? And by Minnette’s 
scribbling these mottos, and her name, and the 
date of our arrival here, on the fly-leaf, he knew 
just where to send a message. See what he 


STRIFE. 


201 


writes on this cover. I can barely make it out: the 
water has soaked through the lot of soft paper I 
took off from under this. Amelia safe — her brother 
joms her soon!' 

“This is indeed a great relief/' said my father. 
“ But what did the harper say further ? ” 

“He talked broken German, and seemed anxious 
that his comrades should not understand him. The 

Cardinal H sent a demand for Paul’s release, 

on condition that he would return with the guard to 
Gaeta, and induce his sister to remain there with 
him, till the war is ended. He will send his answer 
to-night, the harper said, after he has consulted 
with Amelia. And the old man assures me Paul’s 
detention will be only to prevent his taking active 
part in the war, or aiding foreigners to escape who 
are found guilty of conspiracy against the Papal 
Government.” 

“ My son, there is more meaning in this visit of 
the musicians, that at first seemed merely accidental, 
than I thought possible. What foreigners, but our- 
selves, can be suspected of intrigue with the count, 
except the students, who are already in Rome, and 
for the present safe from papal interference?” 

“ This story of the count’s having seen that book 
may be a mere trick of the musician, who, after 
all, I begin to think is a spy ! ” exclaimed Leon ; 
“ for he let me recognize the book, before he de- 
livered it, and may even have written that sentence 
to delude us into some confession.” 

“Antonio is at the bottom of it, if your conjee- 


202 


STRIFE. 


ture is right,” said my father. *‘And the letters 
that have miscarried, as we supposed, may be the 
proofs he has furnished of our correspondence with 
the count, for the sake of some benefit promised, or 
to avert personal punishment.” 

My sister, coming in hurriedly at that moment, 
looked anxiously at each face, as if to read some 
confirmation of her own fears, and then asked : 

“ Do you think there is any danger of your being 
arrested, my dear father? I am almost distracted 
with Nannine’s strange behavior. She laughs hys- 
terically one minute, and the next sobs pitifully, and 
she has not spoken with Antonio to-day. I am cer- 
tain we are threatened with some trouble that Nan- 
nine knows of, and dares not reveal ! ” 

“ In any event, my daughter, no dishonorable con- 
duct can be proved of my actions, or Leon’s, and 
our best security, until we are safe beyond Naples, 
will be a calm, deliberate proceeding in the plan we 
have already made for our journey. To fret over 
mere suppositions can avail nothing; and we must 
use all the fortitude we are capable of showing in 
these trying moments, relying on the kind Provi- 
dence that directs our trials, and who alone can order 
the end !” 

The doors opening into the dining-hall were 
thrown open before Leon could utter the sentence 
his impatience could hardly withhold, and Antonio 
announced dinner. 

The minstrels, according to the Italian custom, 
were ranged on one side the room, and they rose as 


STRIFE. 


203 


we entered the hall. I had put my hand in my 
father’s arm, and stood facing the old harper, while 
my father paused to say a few pleasant words to 
all the musicians. To my full inquiring gaze into 
the harper’s eyes, he again flashed a glance whose 
meaning and identity I felt at the same instant. Paul 
de Meflray himself was the harper, and his presence 
in disguise betokened some danger to me and mine, 
that he had come to avert ! 

To my surprised recognition, he replied with a 
smile, and then said respectfully, but with the privi- 
leged air of an old musician, a leader of a minstrel 
band : 

“At the signorina’s request, I have improvised a 
song of Tasso, for which she has herself afforded 
the inspiration ; and for the young signore a Ger- 
man song ! ’’ 

“ We will gladly hear them,’’ my father replied, 
“and your music may have power to dispel the re- 
grets that cloud our last evening at Sorrento.’’ 

In imminent emergencies one is apt to experi- 
ence that unearthly calm frame of mind, that with 
a strange inconsistency admits of sympathy with 
extremely opposite effects in surrounding scenes, 
sounds, or discourse, rather relieved by the wild arti- 
ficial harmony, than sensible of any discord. 

It is the rude appeal of nature for exemption from 
the bitterness that the heart imbibes with every 
moment’s reflection. Uncultivated and uncivilized 
peoples carry the extreme of this resistance to the 
lessons of purification and advancement of the soul 


204 


STRIFE. 


— in the chastisements of grief — to the horrible or- 
gies and wakes that insult the very remains of those 
for whom they profess to mourn. 

I look back at that evening at Sorrento as the 
crisis of each one’s fate who shared the scene with 
me. And my father’s gloomy conviction of impend- 
ing trial, my sister’s agonizing apprehension, Leon’s 
desperation, and De Meffray’s unflinching grasp of 
his opportunity to serve a friend or destroy an ene- 
my, seem but parts of a thrilling overture for which 
my heart-cords, strained to their utmost tension, 
furnished the keynote. 

Antonio was the only one who seemed unable to 
fall in with the wild rapture, low wailing, solemn 
grandeur, and plaintive melody of the music that 
formed a prelude to the song. He was grave and 
restless. 

The doors opening into the garden and on the 
bay had been left wide open, to admit the evening 
air — so grateful after the warm hour of sunset; 
and the plashing of the fountain in an orange grove 
at the base of a vine-clad terrace on the one side, 
and the wild-wave music of the Mediterranean on 
the other, were distinct yet accordant harmonies 
with the sounds that De Meflray and his compan- 
ions called from the instruments that seemed to re- 
spond with the soul of sadness, that the poet’s actual 
’ embodiment could not have made more impressive. 

For his subject, De Meflray chose the return of 
Tasso to Sorrento, after his imprisonment, in a shep- 
herd’s guise, unconscious of his mother’s death, 


STRIFE. 


205 


while he related to his sister his own trials, until, 
seeing her fainting with sorrow, he discovered him- 
self as Tasso, her brother. 

Striking a chord of the harp, to give his compan- 
ions the note, De Meffray paused but a moment, 
and then, to a sweet running accompaniment, sang 
with a voice rich in subdued melody: 

Is it well with thyself and thy mother, 

In this bower, though earthly, so fair? 

Where even the spirits immortal 
That wander from Eden repair. 

These groves, filled with fragrance and music, 

Give back their delight to my soul. 

But thou, lady, mute as thy lyre, 

Dost struggle some grief to control. 

Thy gaze is as mournful as evening; 

My heart in thy smiles would fain bask ; 

Thy brow so like death, it appals me. 

And frights back the question I ’d ask. 

Noble Portia, thy mother and Tasso’s, 

She liveth — thy brother to greet ? 

Tliis packet from him I would give her. 

How blessed the moment they meet ! 

He bade me, a shepherd lad, bring it, 

“ His sister Cornelia,” he said, 

“ Its contents would read to her mother, 

So tender and gentle the maid ! ” 

Thy hand trembles, lady, nor opens 
The packet so prayerfully given ! 

Oh, say not this hearth is deserted. 

That sorrow her heart-strings hath riven ! 


18 


206 


STRIFE. 


Thy sigh fills my soul with its anguish ; 

Would Tasso, thy brother, were here ! 

But he in dejection must languish 

The world at his heart-cries to sneer ! 

In slavery worse than the galleys 
He labors proud nobles to please. 

Their jealousy goading to madness, 

His efforts their hate to appease. 

And while day and night he is toiling 
Their courts to illume with his light. 

They envy the talent he gives them, 

And banish the giver from sight. 

Cornelia ! — she faints — oh, my sister ! 

Look up, ’t is thy brother who calls; 

This shepherd-^ww only discarding, 

I ’ll guard thee — WHATEVER BEFALLS! 

With that last line, De Meffray’s eyes were fixed 
full on my face, and if there is an ecstasy in danger 
that assures us of the love we covet, my heart was 
thrilled with it. I could not tell the moment the 
song ended, for the echoes that reverberated in my 
heart, even after the voice had trembled to silence. 
The tumult of fear and apprehension in my own 
breast was silenced with this paean of my soul — I 
love, and I am beloved ! 


f 


CHAPTER XXL 


ARRESTED. 

L EONI was deeply moved by the pathos that 
the count had unconsciously thrown into his 
voice, and, unable to control her emotions, she left 
the hall immediately at the conclusion of the song. 

My father made some trivial inquiries of the musi- 
cians regarding Capri, and Leon sat moodily atten- 
tive. Presently my sister returned, and said : “ My 
dear father, if it will not be too troublesome, will 
you tell Nannine how to arrange those articles in 
your room — Nannine will show you what I mean 
— and Leon can tell her where to find some of his 
treasures thit are to go in the same box. May I 
keep the fruit? We will be waiting for you here.” 

“ Very well : we must have one more song when 
we return, and then we must be satisfied for this 
evening,” my father answered, and followed Leon 
from the room. 

“Sister, this will be our last evening; so come to 
the balcony and make the most of it.” 

What possesses her — I thought; one would think 
the occasion anything but one of anxiety, to hear 
that tone of voice. 


207 


208 


STRIFE. 


I glanced at De Meffray, and he was actually re- 
pressing a smile at my perplexed expression. 

The moment we entered the balcony, Antonio 
engaged in an inaudible conversation with the musi- 
cians, and Leoni had a good opportunity to say : 

Minnette, do not be alarmed; our father and 
Leon have already escaped, and Antonio will be 
arrested in their place.” 

De Meffray approached the doorway as I grasped 
the railing of the balcony in my trembling agitation, 
and, screening me from Antonio’s observation, he 
quietly remarked : 

“ Does the signorina find Italy as beautiful as her 
native valley ? ” 

“We have no Mediterranean there,, and no setting 
like these skies for our evening star,” Leoni answered. 

“ Ay, signorina,” and De Meffray raised his voice, 

“ the morning and evening stars reveal the full splen- 
dor of their smiling salutation to earth, ’when their 
jewelled coronets glitter in the skies of Sorrento.” 

Through the garden I heard a tramping of meas- 
ured steps, and the next moment a company of 
Swiss guards entered the dining-hall. 

I began to doubt my own sanity when the officer ^ 
of the company, stepping up before De Meffray, 
politely offered him a paper, which De Meffray read ' 
carefully, placed in a pocket inside his mantle, and 
gave another to the officer, bidding Antonio “ re- 
quest his master, the Baron de Stalberg, and the 
signore, his son, to attend the presence of the guard 
a moment.” 


STRIFE. 


209 


Leoni made a movement as if to pass through the 
room — when Antonio obeyed De Meffray’s order, 
and went to seek my father and brother — but De 
Mefifray said, restraining her: 

^‘Pardon, signorina; I anf compelled to detain you 
till the business of the guard is concluded.” 

‘‘ What is their business with my father ? I ex- 
claimed, unable to contain my fears. 

Antonio passed the door opening into the garden 
at that instant, going in the direction of the outer 
gate, his face pale and his countenance terribly 
agitated. 

“ Seize that man ; he has betrayed his trust, and 
is trying to escape.” 

! Every soldier rushed from the room, the musi- 
[ cians following, and De Meffray, blocking the door- 
i way, looked back at us with a reassuring smile, as 
Leoni said, Be calm, Minnette ; it is just as they 
planned it, and the guard will soon be gone.” 

'■ Antonio was brought into the hall by the guard, 
in a state of fright and bewilderment pitiable to 
’1 behold. 

Where are your master, the Baron de Stalberg, 
and his son ? ” asked the officer, sternly. 

I cannot find them,” replied Antonio. 

“Since I have been here,” said De Meffray, “this 

( man's actions have caused me to suspect treachery, 
and I am convinced his wife has assisted in getting 
the baron and the young signore away.” 

“Indeed, signore, I am innocent of your charge.” 
“ Prove it then,” the officer answered gruffly, “and 
1 8 * O 


210 


STRIFE. 


take these men to your wife. She can answer for 
herself, or she is no woman.” 

This suggestion was immediately acted upon, and 
poor Antonio was marched straight through the 
rooms, where all trace of Nannine had disappeared, 
and the corded trunks and boxes were manifest 
proofs of hasty preparations for our departure ! 

The rage of the officer was equal to Antonio’s 
despair at his helpless position ; and when the order 
was given to place him on the horse intended for 
my father, the muttered threats of the officer, his 
injunction to the musicians, whose real profession 
we had truly guessed, to report Antonio’s treachery, 
at Capri, where he ordered their immediate return, 
and his advice respectfully offered for De Meffray to 
remain at Sorrento till the return of the guard, to 
assist in searching the fugitives when an order was 
obtained — all this failed to divert my attention from 
the distress of Antonio ; and as he was whirled out 
of sight in the midst of the mounted guard, I broke 
down completely, and cried aloud. 

They had not been gone three minutes, when old 
Lavinia walked quietly into the hall. 

“ No time to lose ; order the baggage away, and 
follow us to the cave,” she said to De Meffray, who, 
keeping up the assumed office of a spy in disguise, 
had already despatched his aids to Capri by the boat 
in which they crossed to Sorrento. 

While De Meffray arranged for the removal of our 
baggage to Castelamare with the proprietor of the 
albergo, where it was to be expressed for Dresden, 


STRIFE. 


2II 


old Lavinia took off my dress, and robed me in a 
complete Contadina costume, even to the pane, and 
directed Leoni in the arrangement of a Neapolitan 
robe for herself. 

Taking only some warm wrappings, the moment 
our dresses were changed old Lavinia walked out 
of the albergo, and Leoni and I followed. We had 
not spoken one word about anything but our cos- 
tumes to Lavinia, and in perfect silence we hurried 
after her, as she took great strides along the path 
leading to the cave of St. Anthony. 


CHAPTER XXIL 

THE CAVE OF ST. ANTHONY. 

T he cave of St. Anthony was an inland cave in 
structure, though found on the coast of the 
Mediterranean. 

From Naples to Sorrento the coast is one grand 
irregular chain of promontories, intersected by in- 
lets from the sea, and distorted into endless convo- 
lutions by volcanic action and tidal winds and waves. 
These points of coast-land are joined by bridges 
where the recesses are narrow, and in the broader 
gorges the road is continued around the concave 
sides of the mountains, running like a serpentine 
marble walk at the base of the whole chain, walled 
in by solid rocky ledges from the inundations of the 
Mediterranean. 

Crossing a bridge in the first recess below Sor- 
rento, and turning up the lower bank of the inlet, 
we came suddenly upon the cave. Entering by a 
narrow passage-way, that had been widened from a 
mere crevice, through which the cave was first dis- 
covered, we found ourselves in an octagon room, 
about twenty feet in diameter, walled and roofed with 
solid rock. Opposite the doorway, a shrine, like 

212 


STRIFE. 


213 


those so commonly seen in Catholic countries, was 
placed, about four feet from the ground — an image 
of St. Anthony, in a glass case, a little oil lamp send- 
ing a feeble ray from its crusted wick. A money- 
box, secured to the wall under the shrine, informed 
the chance pilgrim that a coin would be accepted by 
the saint in lieu of a taper, when circumstances of 
a local nature made it expedient. 

St. Anthony’s office was to extinguish evil fires, 
not to preserve sacred ones from draughts and other 
innovators. A faithful monk from the nearest mon- 
astery was able to feed the little lamp sufficiently to 
reveal the requirements of the saint intimated by the 
money-box, which was but one of a million of those 
appurtenances of the horse-leech whose cry is al- 
ways, “ Give ! give ! ” 

Old Lavinia had provided lights for us. Two 
earthen crescets, or Roman lamps, with wicks satu- 
rated in a preparation of refined lard-oil perfumed 
with myrrh, threw out a pleasant light and odor at 
the same time. 

It is certainly a wise provision of a great prose- 
lyting institution, whose strength consists in its 
magnitude, to leave these vestibules to the Mother 
Church open to every wayside farer. There is the 
retreat for the travel-worn pilgrim, who hails its re- 
freshing coolness “ as the shadow of a great rock in 
a weary land.” To the fugitive, a sanctuary from 
the penalty of transgression, where, in the cleft of 
the rock, God’s own hand will screen his guilt 
from the burning gaze of Justice. To the innocent 


214 


STRIFE. 


worshipper of heaven’s loving kindness, it is a place 
where he may pause while the world rushes by; and 
when his tribute of thanksgiving is paid, he finds he 
has lost neither time nor opportunity, for a better 
path opens before him as he leaves the shrine, with 
fewer tangles and more sunlight in it ! 

Alas, that such precious helps must share the 
alternative of many customs that we wandering 
Israelites abused ! But when our very manna is 
contaminated by our greedy and evil appropriation 
of it, it must be withheld, and when we can quiet 
our consciences for neglect of the Temple services, 
with a hasty Pater Noster, or “ Hail Mary,” in the 
vestibule, we must bring out the High Altar stripped 
of all its sensual charms, and command a sincere 
worship of the Invisible God ! 

There were two suppliants kneeling at the foot of 
a rude stone altar, as my sister and I entered the 
cave of St. Anthony — both in the Contadina cos- 
tume of the Campagna; and in a corner of the 
cavern stood two piffiarri, or mountain minstrels, 
who come always before the fete-day of a favorite 
saint, to visit each shrine in the degenerative streets 
of Rome and Naples, to invest them with the sanc- 
tity of their pure inspirations, as spirit-voices have 
breathed to them the heavenly notes, in the sacred 
silence of the mountain heights. 

When the stations have all been visited, the 
minstrels improve their’ opportunity to visit the 
studios, and, by posing for the artists, they reap a 
profitable harvest, carrying home ample sustenance 


STRIFE. 


21 $ 


for their few wants during the bleak winter months. 
Supposing the two females were sisters and daugh- 
ters to the old minstrel and his son, I was not sur- 
prised at their quietly waiting for the conclusion of 
the former’s devotions. Men have a peculiarly will- 
ing acquiescence to that one undeniable saying in 
woman’s praise, “ Last at the cross, and earliest at 
the grave.” 

Old Lavinia threw a glance around the cavern, 
that rested on the kneeling figures, and grew into 
an expression of impatient discontent. 

My sister and myself were evidently taken for 
what we personated in our borrowed costumes, and, 
the piffiarri, with the kindly thoughtfulness of age 
on the father’s part, and the shy respect of youth 
on the son’s, turned their faces from us, as if to 
avoid interfering with our religious intentions in 
entering the cave. 

It was a strange scene — a beautiful contrast be- 
tween the sombre shadowy seclusion of a cold damp 
cavern, and the bright life without, which was col- 
ored in our gay costumes, as well as the jaunty 
dresses, decked with ribands and flowers, of the 
pifflarri. 

Old Lavinia might have represented the witch of 
Vesuvius, only she stood so erect. And there was 
a sinewy strength in the knitting of her bony frame 
and the play of her wrinkled visage, that added to 
her firm carriage and unhesitating step a boldness 
and intrepidity, at once assuring one of her ability 
to accomplish her most daring purpose. 


2i6 


STRIFE. 


Her plain, dark woolen dress and gray cloak 
were only relieved by the red kerchief she wore on 
her head, as we see them worn by the venditti on 
the Corso, or an old apple-woman on Broadway. 
On the road she always threw over her gaudy head- 
dress a black silken shawl, that served as a protec- 
tion against night-damps, or a screen from intrusive 
observation in the daylight when it suited her to 
remain unrecognized. Lavinia stood in the door- 
way; the pififiarri seemed not to regard her evident 
annoyance at the devotional attitude of the Conta- 
dini ; but, with a feeling of undefined dread, lest this 
continued and apparently purposeless silence would 
induce them to accost us with questions. I drew 
nearer old Lavinia, and involuntarily put my hand 
in hers. 

The action affected her strangely. The hard vis- 
age softened to a smile, like that which uncon- 
sciously answers an infant’s mute inquiry, when, see- 
ing trouble in its mother’s face, it can only try with 
its baby-efforts to draw her attention to itself. With- 
drawing her stern look at the two Contadini, and 
slowly kneeling, the tears rolled down her cheeks, 
and she whispered with choking articulation, “Kneel, 
child, and from your earnest heart offer a petition 
for the forgiveness of my misguided son ! ” 

Ah, she had witnessed my pity for Antonio, when 
the rude hands of the guards hurried him to the 
dungeon, from which he had not the honor nor the 
courage to protect my father and brother. 

Obeying her request, I knelt on the ground be- 


STRIFE. 


217 


side old Lavinia; but, between my sight and the 
throne to which my soul aspired, a smiling face, so 
full of loving sympathy, filled my vision, that I 
yielded to the trance-like spell of its smile, and for- 
got all earthly needs in that momentary communion 
with my mother’s spirit ! 

I was recalled to a sense of my real position when 
old Lavinia lifted me from the ground, and, as I 
opened my eyes reluctantly on the actual scene 
around me, my astonishment can be imagined when 
I recognized in the piffiarri my father and Leon, 
anxiously regarding me, and Amelia and Nannine 
trying to soothe Leoni’s unrestrained grief. 

“ This excitement will kill her ! ” she said, with an 
intensity of fear and wild hopelessness, as I opened 
my eyes ; and then Amelia whispering to her, as 
she saw me moving, Leoni smothered her sobs. 
My outstretched hand was released from Nannine’s 
grasp to meet Amelia’s, and in her embrace all my 
vitality returned ! Heart to heart, we were united 
by a sympathy that no accident had created. It was 
a communion of pure love foreordained for holy pur- 
poses, and guarded by angel ministers. 

After our hurried exchange of congratulations — 
only half satisfactory because only half understood 
— old Lavinia took from her pocket a flask, and, 
without asking my consent, presented it to my lips, 
and I swallowed a fearful dose! I shuddered with 
disgust at the rank, disagreeable flavor that filled 
my throat with its acrimonious taste. 

19 


2i8 


STRIFE. 


“ What is it like ? ” asked old Lavinia, as if I had 
uttered my detestation of the draught. 

“ The poison of asps ! ” I replied. 

A strange laugh was her only answer to my com- 
parison, and then a piercing look, as if she were 
trying to fathom the depths of that power she had 
ascribed to me of natural divination. 

‘‘ Nannine, I am so glad you are going with us ! ” 
I exclaimed. But her gloomy countenance did not 
brighten. She only shook her head sadly and said: 

“No, mia car a, I cannot go. Antonio has de- 
stroyed all my happiness as well as his own.” 

“ Do not despond so much, Nannine,” my father 
replied. “ In rendering obedience to his directors, 
Antonio was placed in a very unenviable position ; 
but I am certain he will see the wrong of such a 
system to its servants ; and when I am convinced 
that he has entirely repented his part in the base 
scheme to deprive me of my power to protect my 
children, and to punish an impulsive boy for a heed- 
less expression of his convictions, I will receive him 
again, for your sake ! ” 

Mother Lavinia seized Nannine’s hand before she 
had time to reply, and hurried her from the cave. 
A loud cracking of a whip, that was accompanied by 
a gay song of some moonlight stroller, was more 
and more distinctly heard approaching the cave, and, 
a moment after old Lavinia left us, a jolly-looking 
portatore d'acqua, or water-carrier, entered the cave, 
and stood smilingly regarding us in the doorway ! 
A flaming red waistcoat buttoned close over a blue 


STRIFE. 


219 


striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up nearly to the 
elbows, brown striped pantaloons, rolled just enough 
to make his blue stockings and dusty shoes conspic- 
uous, a beaver with one side of the rim fastened up 
on the side of the hat with a bunch of ribands^ was 
the fantastic garb characteristic of the grotesque taste 
of the Sicilian water-carriers. 

Amelia laughed, as I looked at her to know if we 
should vacate the cave for a new worshipper, and 
Leon exclaimed : 

“ De Meffray ! what a complete disguise ! I never 
should have known you ! ” 

And yet but a few touches of a pencil, deepening 
and widening the shade of eyebrows and moustache, 
and lowering the line where his pure brow and dark 
hair met, had been the whole work of transmuta- 
tion from the Greek face to an absurdly rounded, 
Italian peasant countenance, brimful of merriment 
and dare-deviltry ! 

The effect was irresistible, and we ^11 joined Ame- 
lia in a hearty laugh, that wonderfully eased our 
care-burdened hearts. 

“ What an absurd masquerade ! ” said Leon, hold- 
ing his sides with laughter. 

“ And yet,” said my father to De Meffray, recov- 
ering his gravity, “ I scarcely see how we can afford 
to be so merry yet. My greatest anxiety now is on 
your account, my young friend ! ” 

I shall not be missed before to-morrow,” replied 
De Meffray. “ My good friend, the Caprian minstrel, 
who allowed me to rifle him of his papers, and then 


220 


STRIFE. 


taught me a spy’s use of them, will enjoy his slum- 
bers in my prison-cell to-night ; and when he rends 
the morning skies with vows of vengeance on my 
head, in the presence of the commandant, I shall be 
beyond the reach of its accomplishment ! ” 

“ But that is not all. I learned from Amelia your 
refusal of an honorable position in the Pope’s gift, 
that would not compromise your honor in accepting 
it, as it requires no action on your part against the 
cause you sympathize with ! ” 

** Baron de Stalberg, here is my answer,” and De 
Meffray, taking Amelia’s hand, seemed to appeal to 
my father to recognize the appreciation of both sister 
and brother for the part we had taken in restoring 
their relationship. “ What selfish consideration can 
ever outweigh the obligation of either of us to you 
and yours ? ” 

“ And yet,” said my father, with the tenderness 
that I had never heard in his voice before, except 
when he addressed his own children, “ it has cost 
your brave heart no slight pain, to be forced to lay 
aside your pride of patriotism for a humiliating dis- 
guise, your ambitious dreams of prominence in a 
noble cause for tedious and hazardous flight.” 

“ Ah !, Baron de Stalberg, you have touched the 
right cord for my response, in that one word hazard. 
To Leon and myself, the daring and excitement of 
this escapade will be compensation for any disap- 
pointment in our desires to play the soldier. And 
that is all it could amount to. Before the French 
cannon, Mazzini’s most sanguine crusaders must 


STRIFE. 


221 


relinquish their hopes of liberating Rome from the 
thraldom of Popery ! ” 

“ There will be a day of reckoning for the hydra- 
headed Napoleons,” exclaimed Leon. “ All that is 
valuable they rob from whatever country they can 
steal into ; and on what they cannot move, they leave 
the impress of their spite in the shape of cannon- 
balls ! ” 

“ I suppose I am more French than Italian by my 
birthright,” said De Meffray, with a shrug that cer- 
tainly evinced a claim of French extraction, indis- 
putable as it was comical, " but I prefer one drop 
of pure Italian blood to all the inflammable liquid 
called French blood, that may run in my veins ! 
Are you ready to start ? ” 

The last words were addressed to old Lavinia, who 
stood silent and gloomy in the doorway. 

Yes,” she replied; “and if you are not cautious, 
you will defeat my plan to outwit the whole council 
of cardinals. If we fall into their hands, we will 
find that Mother Church’s affection for her wayward 
children (I wish I could give the tone with the words) 
is a very different one from Mother Nature’s even, 
and the hardships of the Abruzzi not to be named 
with the holy tasks of penance prescribed by the 
Scarlet Lady ! ” 

The count looked at mother Lavinia with an ex- 
pression that was utterly. unintelligible to me: only 
I could see that, however he might disapprove of 
her sentiment, he was not offended by the poor 
heart’s natural expression of the hatred she felt to- 
19 * 


222 


STRIFE. 


ward the system that had caused her wretchedness. 
Amelia sighed gently, and forbore a reproof. 

My father, wishing to divert Lavinia from reflec- 
tions that could not heal her individual grievance 
any more than they could remedy the cause of the 
evil, said : “ I think your plan of remaining at Lan- 
cianno, if we can once get into Abruzzi Citra, is the 
most practicable one ; and we shall be so proficient 
as models, under your training, that we can venture 
to take a fishing-smack, or some of the market-boats 
on the Adriatic, for Venice.” 

“ Our home at dear old Immergriin seems very far 
away,” Leoni said, in a half-weary, half-murmuring 
tone. Its dreary echo comes back to me now^ with 
a sad, sad moan, and I realize as truly that chill of 
despondency that induced the prophetic murmur, 
and was communicated to my heart. 

“ The vetturra is coming — Nannine is safe at the 
house of the vetturino,” Lavinia said, before the rest 
of us could distinguish from the roar of the sea on 
the coast, the sound of wheels on the hard road. 

Beckoning me to follow, she went out to meet the 
carriage. Not noticing the count, who followed us, 
she said, in a conciliatory tone, I sent Nannine 
without warning, for I could not trust her to say 
good-by.” 

‘*Then shall I not see my poor Nannine again?” 
I asked. 

Old Lavinia paid no attention to my question, but, 
dismissing the boy who drove the vetturra, she took 
her seat on the vetturino’s box, and signalled to De 
Meffray to summon the rest from the cave. 


STRIFE. 


223 


“ Keep up a brave heart, Mademoiselle Minnette. 
I am afraid your sister, who has seemed strong till 
now, is suffering more than she is willing to ac- 
knowledge in her anxiety. Whatever happens, I 
have friends who will assist your father; and if I 
am recaptured, it will annoy me, but I can suffer no 
serious punishment.” 

“And Leon ? ” I asked, feeling more dread of the 
silence I knew the count purposely kept on that 
point than an expression of his worst apprehension. 

“ He must be concealed at all hazards,” was the 
slowly uttered reply. “ They had better capture both 
your father and myself than him, while these spite- 
ful advisers of His Holiness send out their decrees 
from Gaeta. That unfortunate remark on the Pin- 
cian has been magnified to a matter worthy of a 
special edict from Gaeta, and there would be no 
silken thread to the seal.” 

Old Lavinia had quietly listened to De Meffray, 
and when he finished, she looked at me seriously, 
and said : 

“ Now, you have drawn enough torture out of one 
question to satisfy any reasonable creature of your 
size; so let the count assist you in the vetturra, and 
call the rest ! We must manage to keep between 
the guard from Capri, if they venture across to- 
night, and Antonio’s escort.” 

“ She is peevish to-night,” said the count, in an 
undertone, as he turned to obey Lavinia’s directions ; 
“ but it is the only vent for her trouble on Antonio’s 
account. She would sacrifice herself for any of us.” 


224 


STRIFE. 


I meant to place my right foot on the step of the 
carriage, but before I could accomplish it, both feet 
were on the floor of the vetturra. I had been lifted 
as if I were a doll, and with one spring of De Mef- 
fray’s firm, sinewy arms, I was off'the ground and 
in the vetturra. 

“ Well done,” said old Lavinia. He could n’t 
have lifted me so.” 

De Meffray had disappeared in the cave when 
the sentence was half spoken, and I took a seat in 
silence, awed by the wild grandeur of the scene 
around me, as my glance took in the whole sweep 
of the Bay of Naples, from Naples to Sorrento. 

Overhead, myriads of golden lights reflected their 
scintillations on the deep blue waves surging at our 
feet. Night had clothed with a deeper majesty the 
sloping hills and lofty mountains hemming us in be- 
tween their silent walls and the moaning Mediterra- 
nean. In soft spring light there was an irresistible 
soothing spell in the purple haze that lent its rich 
hue to the verdure on these hillsides, where orange, 
citron, pine, and olive trees, grape and flowering 
vines, and bright-leaved plants formed a gorgeous 
mosaic for the blue - and - emerald setting of the 
Mediterranean. But now, great pillars of cloud, 
rising in heavy volumes from Vesuvius, stretched 
along the skies like dark beacons of coming despair. 
While I was regarding these inauspicious signs, the 
moon suddenly lifted her head above the distant 
Alps, and a rosy light flushed over the snowy peaks 
as delicate as the bloom on a maiden’s cheek. 


STRIFE. 


225 

*‘Look!” exclaimed old Lavinia, and a rattling 
sound, like the bursting of a cannon loaded with 
grape-shot, directed my eyes to Vesuvius. 

A shower of fire was thrown off from the column 
of fire and smoke that covered from our sight the 
rosy Alps and their fickle Mistress Moon, and in his 
wrath at the favor of her glance at the pure snowy 
peaks, the black sides of Vesuvius trembled, shivered, 
and groaned with unrelieved, jealous rage. 

“ If you were to watch them all night, you ’d see 
this flirtation and quarrelling kept up," said old La- 
vinia ; “ so you need not mind it. I take my omens 
from smaller things." 

The night seemed darker than before, till the moon 
appeared after this fiery display of Vesuvius, and the 
rocks beside us, rising in perpendicular columns, 
towered in the darkness like great temples for un- 
hallowed worship, their walls reverberating the in- 
cessant anthems of the Mediterranean, and by their 
rude weird majesty imposing on all that was credu- 
lous in my nature of the mystic and awful. 

I scarcely heeded the entrance of the rest into the 
vetturra, and as the horses — three abreast, as they 
are driven on the Italian roads — dashed off from 
De Meffray’s impatient whip, the reckless speed 
suited the beat of my pulse, quickened by the 
draught old Lavinia had administered; and the mid- 
night hour, the occasion of our flight, and the in- 
creasing tempest of sounds accompanying the pano- 
rama before us, were the grandest, wildest natural 
harmony I ever experienced. 

P 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


A MIDNIGHT EXCURSION. 

H OW long we had been flying around sharp 
curves that followed the winding of project- 
ing rocks, across bridged chasms, and along white 
stretches of road, while the sea and mountains raced 
swiftly past us on either side, in mere lines of water 
and landscape, I could not tell ; but it seemed an 
age since we had started — when the horses were 
reined in at the entrance to a town on the coast. 

Leoni had seemed only half conscious while she 
rested against Amelia, who tried in vain to rouse 
her from her apathy. 

“ She must not sleep in this night air ; it is mad- 
ness to let her,” grumbled old Lavinia. I had 
chafed her hands, but they fell listlessly in her lap 
the moment I stopped. Amelia and I both whis- 
pered to her that my father was getting uneasy 
about her, in vain. She would not even try to rouse 
her energies from the sluggish state I had never 
known her to be in before. 

I wondered, but dared not ask old Lavinia, why 
she did not try Leoni with the stimulant that was 
running in electrical currents through my veins, 

226 


STRIFE. ' 227 

coursing to my brain, it seemed to me, and inflam- 
ing my very eyes with intense fever. 

“ Where are we ? ” I asked, standing up in the 
carriage as it stopped. 

“ At the town of Vico,” answered De Meffray. 
“ The streets are so narrow here we cannot drive 
three horses abreast, and must take off one.” 

I drew the pins from the pane on my head, and 
my curls fell heavily on my shoulders, damp with 
the night moisture, and hot with the fever of my 
brain. Pushing my hair from my temples, the 
night air bathed them with its dewy coolness. It 
was perfumed with magnolia, and balmy with the 
spray from the waves at our feet. 

The right horse had been detached from the right 
shaft, and placed in advance of the other two ; and, 
De Meflray, mounting the leader to ride postilion, 
w^as just starting, when old Lavinia said to Leoni : 

” Mademoiselle, you had better walk through the 
town, or, at least, part of the way, for I cannot let 
you sleep.” 

Permitting my brother to assist her out of the 
vetturra, Leoni passively consented to the proposi- 
tion ; and was too indifferent to her comfort or dis- 
comfort to resist, though I could see she shivered 
as if the exertion was instinctively dreaded. 

I will go, too,” I said, jumping from the carriage, 
glad to have the freedom, and anxious to see my 
sister rally from her apathy. 

Signore, will you walk with us ? ” asked old 
Lavinia, of my father. “ If we are overtaken by 


228 


STRIFE. 


the guard, do whatever the Signorina Amelia directs,” 
she said, to Leon ; ” and leave the count with the 
horses : he will be in no danger of detection.” 

“The signorina knows every path from here to 
Naples, as well as I do,” she said, in reply to the 
look of inquiry my father gave her. 

” Do you think it would be better to let her ac- 
company us and remain yourself with my son, if 
there is reason to think we may meet a guard ? ” 

Shaking her head and looking significantly at 
Leoni, telling as plainly by her gesture as words 
could have expressed, the necessity for her watching 
my sister, she replied : 

” I must look ahead a little, when we reach the 
other gate, and see if the road is clear.” 

Revived somewhat by the forced exercise, Leoni 
walked slowly, but with more strength, I thought, 
than she seemed to have before she left the vetturra. 

Seeing her better, old Lavinia said : ” Mademoi- 
selle Minnette, your sister can follow us with the 
Baron de Stalberg, and you will be better for a little 
run to the point outside the gate ; so let us go on 
faster.” 

The stimulus of the draught seemed to have lent 
wings to my feet, and old Lavinia’s long strides 
hardly kept pace with my rapid steps through the 
narrow streets, that seemed crowding in on me as I 
hurried to gain the fresh breeze from the sea again. 

” Why do not you give Leoni some stimulant ? ” 
I ventured to ask. 

“It is no use, and would do more harm than 


STRIFE. 


229 


good. She had the fever in her blood before to- 
day, or she would not so soon show the effect of 
this excitement,” answered old Lavinia. 

“The fever?” I exclaimed. 

“Yes; and if she does not sleep when we stop at 
Castelamare to-night, you will have to leave her with 
me, and go on with the count and your father.” 

It did not enter my mind that she had omitted to 
name Amelia and Leon in this arrangement; but I 
soon discovered how completely old Lavinia could 
manage an intrigue! 

When we reached the north entrance to Vico, 
through which we were to make our exit, the vet- 
turra was just in sight behind us, and Leoni and my 
father had entered it again. 

About a hundred yards from the gate a point in 
the road commanded several miles of the coast be- 
yond. Hurrying to the point, we had but to take 
one look, and a sight met our eyes that made old 
Lavinia’s countenance swarthy with terror. The 
very guard that had arrested Antonio was returning, 
with his white horse plainly distinguishable, at a 
fast gallop ! 

“ That is something I was not prepared for I ” La- 
vinia exclaimed ; and, rushing back to the carriage 
that just passed out of the gate, she lifted Leoni from 
the vetturra. While obeying her directions, that I 
could not hear, Amelia and my brother sprang out of 
the other side of the carriage, and disappeared in a 
ravine that opened in the mountain south of the 
gate. , 


20 


230 


STRIFE. 


“Get in, and seem to be asleep, signore,” said 
De Meffray to my father; and, snatching my pane 
from the seat of the carriage, he pinned it like a 
three-cornered shawl under my chin. 

“ These flying curls must be imprisoned, at all 
events,” he said, amused at my eagerness, and half- 
daring courage, that the stimulant had no doubt 
helped to give me. 

Directing me to stand in the road, and move care- 
lessly out of their way when the guard came, De 
Meffray began to turn the vetturra, and pulling and 
screaming at the horses like a veritable Sicilian, he 
blocked up the gate with the vetturra, just as the 
guard rode up to it. ■ 

“ What are you stopping there for, right in the 
entrance ? ” called out the offlcer, whose voice had 
the same harsh grating sound as when he upbraided 
Antonio so severely at Sorrento. 

“ My leader is balky,” replied De Meffray, in a 
careless manner, true to the character he had as- 
sumed. 

“The devil’s own luck I have to-night,” said the 
captain, savagely. “ Can’t you take him out, and 
pull the vetturra in with the other horses ? Don’t 
stand howling like an idiot ! ” 

De Meffray did cut the most ludicrous figure in ‘ 
his portatore costume, and his laughing eyes could 
scarcely help betraying his own consciousness of . 
their absurd expressions, as he blinked them, and 
screamed with every blink at the poor horse he was 
holding back, while he made frantic gestures, as if 
to hurry him on. 



STRIFE. 


231 


In the mean time, Lavinia had made good her 
retreat with Leoni ; and, taking the leader from the 
traces, De Meffray backed the vetturra into the road 
again. 

As the troops filed past, De Meffray, placing him- 
self in the captain’s way as he held the leader by 
the bridle, whined out like an errand-boy, “A car- 
lino, signore captain, for my trouble ! ” 

“ Get out, you rascal ; you ’ll not get a grano from 
me, but that',' brandishing his sword, that he had been 
flourishing for my admiration, while the carriage was 
backing, “if I find you in my way again.” 

“Where are you going with that crazy old car- 
riage?” asked the captain, taking a second thought 
as he was on the point of starting after the guards, 
already out of sight, their horses’ hoofs clattering 
noisily over the flags of lava in the narrow, high- 
walled streets. 

“I was just thinking there was no use going on 
to-night to Sorrento ; for if I turn back to Castel- 
amare, I can bring down more passengers, and 
Beppo will get the vetturra in good time,” said De 
Meffray, coolly. 

Beppo was the owner of the line of post-carriages, 
and often employed the peasants to drive them 
down from Castelamare to Sorrento; so the answer 
was a safe one. 

“ I don’t think you will go to Castelamare to- 
night ; so help the girl into the vetturra, and give us 
the pleasure of your company at Sorrento, as soon 
as you can catch up to us.” 


232 


STRIFE. 


I was cold with fright, and De Meffray started so 
violently that his horse was frightened and jerked 
the bridle out of his hand, and ran up the road to- 
ward Castelamare. 

The captain laughed, and said, Now, if I could 
be spared from to-night’s business, I ’d offer to keep 
the girl’s company while you go after the horse, and 
the old piper sleeps so sensibly. But I must ‘go 
where honor,’ etc., you know the rest. Don’t be 
worried about the horse ; he can’t go far.” 

“When folly loosens a man’s tongue, what woman 
can exceed his empty gabble!” I was thinking, 
w'hen De Meffray, recovering his voice at the last 
suggestion, asked : 

“ What ’s to stop the horse ? ” 

“A big bowlder that has tumbled from the cliff, 
and is jammed in the road between the palisades and 
the ledge, so we can’t pass even with our horses. 
We will send the men up with drills and powder in 
the morning and blast the rock. So follow on to 
Sorrento ; you ’ll find us at the Albergo Tasso.” 

And the vain babbler put spurs to his horse and 
followed the guard. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


THE BOWLDER. 

^ I ^ AKING out a pocket-handkerchief the moment 
the captain disappeared, the count wiped his 
forehead, and said to my father, who received me in 
his arms as I sprang into the carriage shivering 
with a nervous chill : 

“ The warmest work I ever did was to rein in my 
temper long enough to let that fellow get out of my 
way.” 

“You did well to restrain it,” my father replied; 
“for he could be ugly enough if fairly provoked. 
Minnette ’s a brave little maiden, and doing very 
well now,” he continued, in answer to De Meffray’s 
anxious look, as my father enveloped me in a warm 
covering and placed me against the back of the car- 
riage. But my feelings did not accord with the ac- 
count of me. I was doing very ill instead of very 
well ; and the effects of the draught were not likely 
to trouble me with an excess of courage any longer. 

Looking in the direction of the fugitives, De Mef- 
fray shouted all manner of Sicilian lines agreed upon 
as signals for a recall in such scattering emergencies, 
but no creature in that dreary midnight scene was 
visible but the three nervous watchers. 


20 


233 


234 


STRIFE. 


I had better go on and see what prospect there 
is of our managing the bowlder,” said De Meffray, 
after ten minutes, and no one appeared ; “ and should 
the guard or any other party to be avoided come 
this far before I return, you can drive slowly on after 
me, and we must trust my sister and mother Lavinia 
with Leon and his sister. They are both accustomed 
to such adventures, and will run no risks.” 

He had not gone out of our sight when we saw 
the runaway leader trotting back again; and, catch- 
ing him, the count mounted his back, waved his hat 
to us, and galloped around a promontory that shut 
him too away from us. 

“ I am very anxious about Leoni. She is not like 
herself in this trouble, and seems scarcely aware of 
the danger of our position,” said my father. 

I did not undeceive my father. It was better he 
should think Leoni was merely bewildered and apa- 
thetic, than know what was evidently the case. As 
old Lavinia had judged, a slow fever had been com- 
ing on a week before ; and daily headaches as the 
sun set, sleepless nights, and heaviness on waking 
in the mornings were all, to my mind, clear symp- 
toms of the fever I had not suspected before. 

After another ten minutes of painful suspense, old 
Lavinia appeared with Leoni, and, to my comfort, 
my sister seemed to have recovered more life, and 
walked better than when she first left the carriage. 

But when they reached the carriage, I was shocked 
at the expression of Leoni’s countenance. In that 
short time of our journey, her face seemed to have 


STRIFE. 235 

become haggard, her eyes sunken, cheeks drawn, 
and mouth painfully set. 

She answered my look with a faint smile, and 
there was a glassy brilliancy of the eye that I knew 
was no indication to afford any comfort. Old La- 
vinia sighed as she assisted her in the vetturra ; and 
seeing my eyes filling with tears that I could not 
restrain at this sad condition of my sister, she said, 

. quietly, and with less fretfulness in her voice than 
since we left the cave : 

“ If we reach Castelamare, the signorina must not 
go further to-night. She needs the rest ; and it might 
be better not to expose her to the sea air, even to- 
morrow, for she has a little fever, and cannot take 
the remedies she ought to have, while she is out and 
unprotected from the dampness.” 

“ My daughter, do you feel ill ? ” asked my father, 
now realizing for the first moment Leoni’s actual 
danger. Old Lavinia’s manner had betrayed more 
than her words. 

“ I am more tired than anything ; and a dull aching 
in my limbs, with alternations of heat and cold all 
through my blood, seem like fever symptoms,” she 
quietly replied. But one good night’s rest, and 
Lavinia’s prescription that she has been telling me 
about, will restore me very quickly, I know.” 

We were at the foot of a mountain, on which a 
monastery was standing conspicuously. Its win- 
dows reflected the red flames of Vesuvius. 

“ Heaven avert the omen ! ” old Lavinia said, un- 
'^er her breath, shaking with suppressed agitation, 


236 


STRIFE. 


as she looked suddenly, with an expression of hor- 
ror, at the monastery, the door of which had opened, 
and a procession of monks in black robes came forth, 
bearing lighted torches, whose flare made their hid- 
eous masks, and the black pall covering a cofiin car- 
ried in their midst, horribly glaring — the death’s- 
head and cross-bones embroidered in white on the 
pall that swept the ground, looking ghastly in the 
moonlight — while the monks, slowly disappearing 
behind the brow of the mountain,, chanted a w’ailing 
dirge, full of hopeless woe, rather than the promise 
of resurrection. 

“ What a heathenish horror ! ” exclaimed old La- 
vinia, the moment her vision was freed from the spec- 
tacle. We were all too deeply affected to reply ; so, 
turning suddenly away from the carriage, the old 
woman went with those same impatient strides down 
the hill, into the ravine, where Amelia and my bro- 
ther had disappeared. 

Lavinia had scarcely gone, when we heard a sharp 
report of a small firearm, seemingly north of us, and 
to the right considerably of the coast road. 

“ What can that be? ” my father exclaimed, grasp- 
ing the reins, that had been lying idly on the front 
of the vetturra. 

Old Lavinia came back at a pace that I cannot de- 
scribe. She neither ran nor walked ; but, impelled 
by a strong motive, she moved as people rush through 
blinding smoke, or from a falling ruin, when no one 
can tell “ how they escaped.” Perhaps, in such a 
crisis, the invisible wings expand involuntarily, to 


STRIFE. 


237 


avoid permanent adoption prematurely. Or, it may 
be, some witness of the peril, who desires that the 
threatened victim shall not quit the world before 
himself, lends a double power of escape through his 
saving impulse. 

In the latter case, Lavinia had three forces added 
to her own power of locomotion ; for even my sister 
threw off her wrappings and stood up in the vet- 
turra, looking wildly toward the ravine, as the old 
woman emerged from it, alone. 

Seizing the reins as she mounted the vetturino’s 
box, Lavinia waited, with her head bent forward as 
if to lessen the space between herself and some 
point where she hoped to hear another signal — and 
sure enough it came. The second time, followed by 
an explosion that my father at once interpreted — 
the blasting of the bowlder. 

Off dashed the horses, and to my question, half 
shrieked in my nervous excitement : 

‘‘Amelia and Leon, we are leaving them — where 
are they ? ” Lavinia answered : 

“ Wherever the signals were fired, and they are 
warning us of our own danger!” 

Around those curves, and over the bridges of the 
.coast road, the wheels were literally spmning, and 
fire flashed from the horses’ feet with every stroke 
of their hoofs on the rocky road. We were going 
around the base of one of the largest promontories, 
so we could not see more than a few yards ahead of 
us at any time. I remembered that afterward, but 
had not the sense to think then how pedestrians, by 
a short ascent on one side, and an equal descent on 


238 


STRIFE. 


the other, could reach the point we were striving j 
after by a long circuit around the mountain. f 

The last sharp turn brought us in full view of the [ 
palisades. 

An immense rock was balancing on the ledge j 
of the embankment, the horse’s traces fastened [ 
around a sort of knob of the rock, and De Meffray I 
stood holding the horse on the side of the bowlder 
opposite the way we were coming. A place just 
wide enough for us to pass through was cleared 
without touching on either side, though Lavinia j 
scarcely slackened the speed of the horses ; and the } 
instant we passed the bowlder, it rolled with a tre- || 
mendous shock from the ledge against the palisades j 

— and we were barred from the pursuit of a guard . 
from Capri ! 

Amelia, Leon, and De Meffray took their places \ 
without speaking — their faces telling all they had 
suffered in the time we were answering their signal 

— and, without urging, the horses dashed on with us. \ 
In one hour from the time we left Vico, we were j 
landed on the platform at the railroad station at 

• Castelamare. 

Thrusting his papers in my father’s hand, De 
Meffray hailed the guard of a railway carriage 
attached to an engine already fired up ” for use. 

“ Is this the train for the Cardinal M.’s passenger? ” ; 
asked De Meffray. 

“ It is.” 

“ He has escaped, and I have brought the bearer 
of a despatch to his eminence. Monseignor, the 
guard of your carriage ! ” said De Meffray, taking off 


STRIFE. 


239 


his hat to my father, while old Lavinia, marshalling 
all the rest of us out on the platform, grumbled and 
wrangled with some imaginary extortioner as she 
counted from her purse the price of our fare into De 
Meffray’s hand. 

Showing the guard his papers with a seal that no 
good Catholic would dispute in the hands of His 
Satanic Majesty, my father coolly remarked: 

“ I will wait a half-hour or so. A messenger may 
arrive from Capri,” — and off he walked to the wait- 
ing-room. 

De Meffray was mounting his box in true vettu- 
rino fashion, when old Lavinia called out : 

“Go tell the signore what I wish ! ” 

Laughing derisively, De Meffray only waited to 
catch the eye of the curious guard, and said, “ That 
old woman has offered me more than the price of 
her trip to get the signore to take her to Naples with 
her models. I like scudi, but not for such under- 
takings ! ” and off he drove ! 

Muttering and drawing her cloak around her, old 
Lavinia stepped off the platform, we all motioning 
to follow her, when the guard asked: 

“ Good mother, why are you anxious to reach 
Naples so early in the morning? ” 

“To be ahead of Olivia’s models, to be sure!” she 
crossly answered. 

“ And what is it worth to manage the business for 
you ? ” 

“That!” said Lavinia, holding in the light a coin 
that dazzled the eyes of the guard. 

He took it. The golden hook never scratched as 


240 


STRIFE. 


it went down, and ten minutes afterward he informed 
old Lavinia that “ the signore had consented ! ” 

Just as the half-hour expired, a horseman dashed 
up to the platform. Throwing the reins on his 
horse’s neck, he hastened to my father, who was al- 
ready at the door of the railway carriage, and pre- 
sented a paper. My father glanced at it, and asked : 

“ Have you ordered your horse to be tended ? ” 
Here comes the vetturino, Monseignor; I passed 
him in the street.” 

“Jump in!” my father said, getting in first him- 
self, the messenger following, models last, and, tak- 
ing his box, the guard signalled the engineer, and we 
were off for Naples! 

“ Sister,” said the messenger under his breath, 
“ what do you think of my diplomatic skill ? ” 

“ It is equalled only by Leon’s engineering,” an- 
swered Amelia, smiling. 

“And Amelia’s quickness in discovering the boat 
from Capri to be our pursuers ! ” said Leon. 

“And mother Lavinia’s driving!” I chimed in. 

“And our father’s gravity as a government spy ! ” 
said Leoni, who was thoroughly roused to her usual 
interest in any threatened disaster to her father, sis- 
ter, or brother, her fever subdued by fear. 

When the especial train arrived at Naples, on the 
morning of the 5th of April, 1849, ^ guard from 
Gaeta was in attendance to receive the Baron de 
Stalberg. 

The first person who left the carriage was a mes- 
senger who reported the escape of the baron to the 
captain of the guard. 


STRIFE. 


241 


A certain seal was glanced at, in the hands of a 
government spy, and he and the messenger took a 
ve.tturra for the Gaeta station. 

An old woman with her models were shut in, till 
the carriage was deserted by the guard as empty, to 
prevent a reprimand to the conductor, who hugged 
his bribe as compensation for his anxiety. 

When the models joined the usual crowd at the 
station when a prisoner is expected, the old woman 
inquired curiously about the “ train just in.” 

“ Be off, mother, to your studios,” said a good- 
natured railway officer; ” if you loiter here, you will 
lose a good part of your commissions, and gain no 
more information than you have now ! ” 

Mumbling and frowning, the old woman marshal- 
led her models to the nearest wine-shop, and from 
there — 

Naples was scoured that same day for the old 
woman and her models, the spy and the messenger, 
but they had “made themselves air, into which they 
vanished ! ” 

A telegram from Castelamare informed the com- 
mandant at Naples that ” the Baron de Stalberg, son, 
and two daughters, the Count de TEtoile, and the 
Countess de Meffray, and Lavinia, duenna to the 
latter, must be arrested, if possible ! ” 

“ For conspiracy and abduction of Government 
papers ! ” 

The telegram was authorized by the captain of a 
guard from Capri, who arrived at Castelamare ten 
minutes later than the fugitives arrived at Naples ! 

Q 


21 


CHAPTER XXV. 


THE ANGEL OF DEATH ! 

I DARE not dwell on the three days following 
our arrival at Naples. It was such bitter, bitter 
woe, to see the writhings with pain, the wild, fright- 
ened countenance distorted with dread of imaginary 
pursuers, to hear the anxious questions as to our 
comfort, and then the cries of anguish at Leon’s 
supposed absence from us, and the appeals for her 
father’s release, with which L^oni, in her fevered 
ravings, almost maddened us ! Our efforts to soothe 
her were useless. Risking everything from which 
we had fled, we employed a physician, reputed a 
most skilful practitioner in cases of Naples fever. 
But his most powerful remedies would not reach 
Leoni’s need — if she was within human aid — and 
when she was suddenly still, her eyes fixed smilingly 
on some fancied object, that had no more terror for 
her, the breathings growing more gentle — less fre- I 
quent, till at last, even the breath went out with a 
faint sigh — we stood motionless, breathless almost ^ — 
till we could no longer bear the agony of that awful 
silence — lest the life hovering at the parted smiling 
lips should flutter back to the weary breast, and rack , 

the worn body with its throes again. 

* 242 


STRIFE. 


243 


Over the casket containing our dearest treasure 
my father’s figure became bowed, his voice tremu- 
lous; and after persuasion, reasoning, and pleading 
failed to draw him away, he was forced to see the 
casket closed, shutting his heart in ; and from the 
mournful, beseeching face he turned to us then, we 
saw that the light had faded into the past, and his 
hopes of future happiness had fled with the departed 
spirit ! His tottering steps accompanied us in our 
dreary journey, but his heart was with the sacred 
charge that an honest, kindly peasant was taking 
home. 

y It was touching to witness the tearful sympathy 
of the people about us, who did all that simple kind- 
ness can do to comfort us ; and even their mute won- 
der at the fearful change in my father was affecting. 
He looked, indeed, as if half a century had been 
added to his years in that short season of trial. To 
their whispered encouragement and fervent bless- 
ings, when we left them, he only repeated to the 
peasants, as he had done continually, Leoni’s sad 
complaint : “ Our home at dear old Immergrlin is 
very far away ! ” 

One morning at sunrise we arrived at the her- 
mitage of Ermitano, on the mountains. Friends had 
surrounded us, protecting and aiding us, from the 
time we entered the region where pure mountain air 
seems to impart to the hardy mountaineer its own 
buoyancy and generous freedom. 

My father was carried on a litter up the last steep 
ascent, and there was something in the manner of 


244 


STRIFE. 


the venerable hermit who came out, like a good pas- 
tor, to meet the strangers that his people had brought 
to his sheltering roof, that met my father’s mood. 

He received and ate the bread the hermit broke 
for him, and tasted the fruits; and then, looking 
kindly, though very sorrowfully, at the aged recluse, 
he said : 

** My friend, we may break bread together in a 
solemn feast, as our Master did, when the last earthly 
comfort was denied Him ; the w’orld has no more 
solace for either of us.” 

” Nay, friend,” the hermit answered, “ such despond- 
ency I do not indulge in. I have, even here, a sa- 
cred trust. These forest-people are all my children. 
Morning and evening they come for my guidance of 
their honest petitions for heavenly grace, and many 
hours of cheerful communion I hold with them as- 
they flock around me. 

My sorrows are known only to my own breast 
— and Heaven knows they are bitter; but while 
consolation is afforded me in this sacred retreat, I 
thankfully accept the boon, and trust for the desired 
end.” 

My father sighed, stroked my curls, that fell over 
my eyes on his breast, and wearily murmured, “Our 
home at dear old Immergrlin is very far away ! ” 

Why prolong the sad recital ? One night, when 
my father slept, exhausted with watching, I had been 
entreated to lie down beside Amelia to rest, in a 
room adjoining my father’s. Presently the door 
seemed to be opened, and Leoni beckoned me to 


STRIFE. 


245 


come to my father. I seemed to rise and follow her, 
leaving Amelia sleeping. My mother was bending 
over my father’s sleeping form, and, with a smile, 
she kissed his lips; and then both she and Leoni 
were gone ! 

''She has left ashes on his lipsT' I cried out, and 
sprang from Amelia’s arms, meeting in my father’s 
room white faces, that looked with helpless grief at 
the silent one, whose broken heart had ceased to 
beat ! 

“ Sister, I cannot bear this ! let me go with the 
men who are to fight in to-morrow’s battle before 
Rome, or I shall go mad ! ” Leon cried, and some- 
thing within me answered : 

“ If you must go, Leon, you may ; I can bear any 
sorrow now !” 

But when I fell senseless in his arms, he said to 
those around him : 

“ Poor little heart 1 I am all she has left her now.” 

And even Amelia’s gentleness was not more ten- 
der than the care of my noble brother for the feeble, 
flickering life, that threatened many times to escape 
during the three dreamy weeks that followed. 

I suffered no pain, had no wishes, no fears, no 
hopes, no cares. 

At last, old Lavinia insisted that I must be car- 
ried into the open air, and one bright morning I 
was placed on a mattress under a tree near the her- 
mitage. 

Amelia had gone with Paul and L^on to ascend a 
peak of the mountain, from which a fine view could 
21 * 


246 


STRIFE. 


be had. If I had not persuaded Amelia to go, Leon 
* would have remained. Their interest in each other 
had been very apparent during those happy days in 
Sicily, and my father approved heartily, we could 
not fail to see, though he never even acknowledged 
that he detected the attachment. I remarked to him 
once, “ Father, Amelia and Leon seem to have been 
born for each other; and they acknowledge it in 
every look and action when they are together; and 
yet apart, they are never restless, and make no ex- 
ertion to attract any especial attention or increase 
their opportunities to hold the communion of mind 
and heart that is evidently the chief pleasure of 
either.” 

Laughing heartily, my father replied : 

“ If I could trust that little head that has all sorts 
of agreeable fancies about others, and believe these 
children were so far decided in their affections, I 
would certainly give them credit for being the most 
sensible lovers it was ever my province to com- 
mend.” 

'‘But leaving the if out of the question, you could 
not object?” I asked. 

“I always hoped that Ethel would be Leon’s 
choice, for the sake of the friendship that is my 
dearest relation — except with my three children; 
but where the heart of a child is concerned in the 
gift, no parent would be justified in bestowing so 
much if it involved a sacrifice.” 

There the matter rested. But I often recalled that 
quiet expression of his views of it, and knew that in 


STRIFE. 


247 


giving my encouragement to a union likely to prove 
an unusual blessing, I would not offend against my 
father’s wishes. Leon asked Paul, in my hearing 
one day, his opinion of Ethel. 

“ She is worthy of all the admiration she draws 
to herself; by the very charm of her unconscious 
power,” he replied. 

Sometimes I had thought he was different in his 
manner toward her; there was more deference, 
I thought, and less of that freedom of intercourse 
that we all shared alike. But then, accident had 
thrown him with Leoni and myself so intimately 
that there could be no natural reserve with us. 

At Sorrento all doubts were dispelled — one glance 
had told me all I wished to know of Paul’s heart ; 
and the very reserve that had grown between us from 
the time my father became a care instead of a pro- 
tector, increased my appreciation of the quality of 
Paul’s regard for me. 

On one question there had been unbroken silence 
since our reunion : the religious belief of Amelia 
aad Paul. All my anxieties and regrets centred on 
that one point. 

The misery resulting from a misalliance of Pro- 
testant and Romanist in Amelia’s family, and Made- 
moiselle Beaumont’s unhappy fate — an exile from 
the scenes where she might, even when her father’s 
presence could no longer cheer her, have continued 
the happiness every strong heart must needs share, 
when with those for whom it works out the best 
ends of life : this reflection checked the hopes that 


248 


STRIFE. 


my natural heart had felt when I first discovered the 
certainty of Paul’s love for me. And the great need 
I felt of assistance, counsel, support in a matter so 
grave, added to the weight of my sorrow for my 
loss, and forced me to wish death to release me from 
a doubt I could not banish. 

Would my influence be great enough to convert 
him ? I dreaded my recovery of health and strength, 
that must bring me nearer the decision I felt must 
be made then. 

I was cowardly, perhaps, in my weakness ; but 
love and principle wage nTighty contests in such 
exigencies, that the stoutest hearts might shrink 
from. 

Ermitano never presented himself, except when 
a pilgrim demanded his attention on his way to 
other mission stations, or at the morning and even- 
ing services. Only when others’ necessities required 
his ministering, he left the solitude of his own apart- 
ment in the hermitage. Hermitage was not the 
proper name for Ermitano’s retreat, as he had not 
entirely secluded himself; but in effect, his life ap- 
proached nearer a hermit’s than any other, and the 
old half-ruined abbey had been occupied by six her- 
mits in succession, which certainly seemed to invest 
it with the right to be called the hermitage. The 
grounds were not enclosed around it, as the outside 
lines of the whole region, twenty miles in circumfer- 
ence, were guarded by alternate watches, who pre- 
vented the encroachments of strangers who had not 
sufficient business with the mountaineers to warrant 


STRIFE. 


249 


their entrance within the barrier. The huts of the 
peasants were some distance from the hermitage. 

So Lavinia was my only companion in this forest 
scene, the first day I could be induced to face the 
broad daylight, that seems so intensely bright when 
the heart is crushed that seeks its cheer, and yet 
dreads its glare. 

For some time I avoided the sky, after I began to 
look about me, from my bed already strewn with 
fallen leaves. 

I could not bear to look at the serene, unruffled 
sky, that shut out my beloved ones from my sight. 

A slanting ray of sunshine fell on the edge of my 
mattress, and, putting my hand out to feel its genial 
warmth, I was surprised to see how thin my hand 
was, by the pink light that was reflected through it. 

“ What would Nannine say to that ? ” 

My question was answered with sobs. Old La- 
vinia threw herself on her face at the foot of my 
mattress, and between her sobs exclaimed : 

“ Nannine will never forgive Antonio. She has 
left him, now that he is released, and the rest of her 
life will be devoted to you. She will start for Im- 
mergrlin in a few days to prepare for your return.” 

I could not reply. My heart ached for this strick- 
en mother, who had better have been childless ! Sud • 
denly a crackling of dried branches near us gave 
notice of some one approaching. 

Old Lavinia hastily dried the tears that had seemed 
a luxury after her pent-up sorrow — and I had wel- 
comed them for her sake — but neither of us thought 
of looking who might be the intruder. 


250 


STRIFE. 


Minnette, my child, my darling, oh, my poor 
little sunbeam 

I knew the voice, and who alone had the right to 
call me by his .own name for me. I threw my 
arms around his neck, and all the woe unuttered till 
now, was poured out in wild lamentations on that true 
heart. 

Dr. Leon — the reader must recognize him — had 
been searching for us since we left Sorrento. He 
arrived there the day after we left; and even Nan- 
nine supposed, until two days before, that we were 
secreted in the neighborhood, so carefully was the 
manner of our escape concealed by the mortified 
guards. 

Leon was frantic with alternate joy and grief on 
seeing our dearest friend ; and Amelia and Paul ex- 
pressed their sympathy and delight, by kindly pro- 
viding every comfort and all the refreshment our 
hospice could afford for the doctor. 

“ I have sent so many letters recalling you home, 
and I looked every day for your arrival," said the 
doctor, “ thinking my dear friend was intending to 
surprise us; till at last, Madame’s forebodings of some 
treachery on Antonio’s part, induced me to believe 
he had intercepted my letters, and prevented yours 
from reaching us. So I came to bring you all home, 
furnished with passports from the Pope for our en- 
tire party, on the request of our king, and his repre- 
sentation to the Italian government of your peace- 
able motive in passing the lines. 

To-morrow we will think about the best ar- 


STRIFE. 


251 


rangement for our journey, and we must each encour- 
age a spirit of hopefulness, not morbidly nursing our 
selfish grief for those who have gained so much by 
our loss, but thanking that tender Providence that 
has left us true hearts to be blessed by our happi- 
ness or saddened by our despair. There are mother- 
ly arms at Immergrlin waiting for a stray daughter, 
and a sister looking very impatiently for her absent 
companion. Can you think of this, Minnette ? ” 
Could I reject the comforting thought that the 
dear spirits who are gone have directed this sacred 
adoption of an earthly father, mother, and sister ? ” 
It was a paternal kiss that was impressed on my 
forehead, and my sleep that night was dreamless. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


DAWNING OF CHEERFULNESS. 

Y outh can but choose to drink the promising 
elixir that Hope presents in her fragrant chal- 
ice to his very lips. The doctrines of despair are for 
those who, in the autumn of life, have only a barren 
retrospection, unfruitful of a single sheaf in the gar- 
ners of earth or heaven ; whose eyes, accustomed 
to avoid the prospective views of their own inevita- 
ble future, are dimmed by their hopeless contempla- 
tions of fallow fields and blackened stubble — the 
remains of their wasted earthly possessions. 

“ O world ! O life ! O time ! 

On whose rude steps I climb,” 

came from a heart that, striving to make its own 
laws, placed itself beyond the pale of human or di- 
vine sympathy, and, appalled by its isolated experi- 
ence of the woes of earth, “wept sweet tears too 
tumultuously for peace',' or, with Babylonish temerity, 
building the loftiest temples that man’s imagination 
ever conceived, faced divine law with divine poetry, 
undaunted by visions from his airy battlements, that 
caused the cherubim to veil their faces and cry, 

252 


STRIFE. 


253 


'‘Unworthy! unworthy!” To him, “laughter, light, 
and music were a sweet madness^ ahd ecstasy but a 
thrilling sadness! ” 

Such rare exceptions cannot alter the universal 
law of youth. It is more natural to adopt Collier 
than Shelley, and declare, “ I would not despair un- 
y less I knew the irrevocable decree was past ; saw 
1 my misfortune recorded in the book of fate, and 
ji signed and sealed by necessity.” 

: Such was the thought with which I closed a copy 

i of Shelley’s poems, that Dr. Leon had left in his 
room, and I had purloined in his absence from the 
[ hermitage. 

A decided reaction had begun in my physical 
condition, in consequence of cheerful intercourse 
with the doctor, Ermitano, Amelia, Paul, and even 
! Leon, whose elastic nature sprang back from the 
tension of excessive grief to the ease of moderate 
cheerfulness, when the burden of his anxiety on 
my account was lifted by Dr. Leon, and his heart 
was interested, in spite of its inclination to indulge 
in useless regret, by the magic power that Amelia 
insensibly exercised over him. She was as innocent 
of any art in drawing and centring Leon’s feelings 
and sentiments on herself, as when she was the 
' object of his admiration and wonder, as she lay 
sleeping before him, unconscious of his presence, 
that night in Rome, a picture of rare beauty and 
childlike confidence in the security of my protection. 

Amelia’s character was as complete, sound, and 
well balanced as her physique. In the sum of 


22 


254 


STRIFE. 


characteristics that constituted her individuality, 
there was scarcely an undue proportion of any. 
Her imagination, subject to her will, and her will 
schooled by an uncommon necessity, she seemed 
almost incapable of the extravagant impulses in- 
duced by morbid sensitiveness in its reactions, or 
the leaden despondency sure to weigh on spirits 
that assume austere sobriety and sepulchral gravity 
for true philosophy or religion. 

Amelia’s education was not limited to the courses 
admissible in a convent school. Old Lavinia had 
sedulously watched the influence, exerted by the 
Sisters in charge of Amelia’s classes, and, deter- 
mined to give her inclinations the bent of Protest- 
antism, she inquired of the artists she met in the 
studios of German and English students, and was 
furnished by them with lists of books, historical and 
purely literary, that formed a process of self-educa- 
tion, more thorough, if not as methodical as that 
dull routine of her less fortunate classmates. 

Although two weeks had passed since Dr. Leon’s 
arrival at the hermitage, nothing had been said by 
him, or any one in my hearing, of our journey, that 
I had supposed would be at least attempted a few 
days after he came. 

I had not trusted myself to even think of Immer- 
grlin. There are curious contradictions in sorrow- 
ful breasts. A tendency to indulge in almost sullen 
gloom may be accompanied by an irritability that 
will not bear a shade of melancholy in any one else; 
sympathy provoking rather than soothing the un- 


STRIFE. 


255 


1 

1 

I 

i 

I 


settled feelings. I have known one or two who 
obeyed the impulse to fly all condolence, and run 
away from the very expression of sorrow in the 
faces of friends whose grief for their affliction could 
not be concealed; and when Leon cried out in his 
anguish, Let me go into the battle, or I shall go 
mad ! ” I knew the force of his impulse, and could 
not but consent. 

My poor father would have “ outlived the sickness 
of his health and living, and would have begun to 
mend,” could he have faced a foe less subtle than 
the undejrmiriing melancholy that surrounded him 
and chained him to Leon and myself, and the sub- 
missive sadness of all who served him. 

The fashion that shuts out the sunshine from 
houses of mourning, clothes little children in the 
garb of woe, and denies the stricken heart all that 
is genial in the society of friends, or healthful in 
exercise and diversion, deserves to be parodied as I 
once heard an innocent child confound a roomful 
of fashionable mourners with a view of their own 
absurdity. 

When the child had been arrayed in black, her 
gloves were scarcely on, as the finishing touch for 
her appearance in the church “the first Sunday,” 
— when, surveying herself in a mirror with a look of 
anything but approval, and then looking dolefully 
at the little “ black hands,” she asked : 

“ Will I take these off and wear my bright clothes 
soon ? ” 

“ Yes ; but Katie would rather wear them now to 


256 


STRIFE. 


show how sorry she is that poor papa is dead, 
would n’t she ? ” 

“Yes,” said Katie, appreciating the situation, 
while her aunt’s eye was fixed on her ; but the mo- 
ment it was withdrawn, out came the child’s truth, 
that is like God’s truth, without anything to break 
the force : “ But then, you know, auntie, it is better 
for papa to be in heaven, where he can’t hear me 
walk when I forget to go on my tippy toes /” 

The effect was horrible. I had more pity for the 
self-conscious shame that tinged the pale faces of 
that assembly of fashionable aunts, than sorrow that 
a soul whose release had been prayed for was at last 
resting, and the little one, so painfully restricted, 
could at least walk without reproof Katie’s tears, 
when she looked at papa’s dead face and forgot her- 
self, were more sincere than the pharisaical dress- 
ing of an unreflecting child in mourning garments. 
Moral — self-evident ! 

I had scarcely finished my surreptitious enjoyment 
of the grand passages in the “ Revolt of Islam ” — 
the result of “ the agony and bloody sweat of intel- 
lectual travail,” as the poet himself declared, feeling 
that in wrestling with a spirit at once so lofty and so 
demoniac I had gained strength in the encounter — 
when the owner of the book appeared at the door 
of the hermitage and smiled approval at my remain- 
ing in the open air longer than usual. 

Amelia was assisting old Lavinia in the prepara- 
tion of herbs, plants of various kinds, roots, and 
dried flowers, for the wonderful compound mixture 


STRIFE. 


257 

that I had already tasted in the cave of St. Anthony. 
We were seated in a bower of forest leaves, under 
a grand old cedar that the mountaineers venerated 
as much for its healthful fragrance as for its noble 
size. 




! 


'‘Many a bambino had recovered strength under 
that tree, whose life had been despaired of in the 
fatal air of Rome,” old Lavinia asserted. 

Leon and Paul had accompanied some of the 
peasants to their huts, to examine some small arms 
that they wished to purchase ; and their heads ap- 
peared above the edge of a hill that ran down from 
the rear of the hermitage, just as the doctor crossed 
the grounds to our bower. A bunch of anemones 
decorated each of the hats of the tired travel- 
lers, who, throwing themselves on the ground and 
placing their hats carelessly under a bench, for- 
got to acquit themselves gallantly, as usual, in pre- 
senting the bouquets. 

Amelia and I exchanged glances while the doctor 
was diverting the attention of the youths with ques- 
tions about the arrangement of the houses and the 
habits of the peasants in their homes ; and Amelia 
adroitly fished up the hats on the end of a long stick 
that Lavinia used for a stirrer when her mixture was 
boiling. We helped ourselves to the offerings in- 
tended, though not in the order we chose to appro- 
priate them. Amelia took Paul’s, and I Leon’s. 
Concealing the bouquets, I held one flower in my 
hand, and, as soon as a pause occurred in the dia- 
logue, I repeated a line from that prodigy, the vic- 
22 * R 


258 


STRIFE. 


tim of Goethe’s cruel forcing-system — a mere expe- 
riment of an egotistic man on the heart of a maiden, 
who wept at the wreck she beheld in her mirror, 
when deserted by the cold engineer of her heart’s 
fiercest passions. 

No doubt Amelia’s fishing up the hats called Bet- 
tine to my mind, through the association of the 
Turk’s slipper that the latter mischievously purloined 
with her foot; and Shelley’s complaint of the requi- 
sition of Providence on the heart of man for its en- 
tire surrender, suggested the sentiment : “ I have 
heard learned men growling, and I always thought 
one single flower must shame the whole.” 

The immediate effect of the quotation was what I 
anticipated. 

Leon exclaimed, ” There is a breath of our own 
Germany. Minnette, you are growing strong again ! ” 

But Paul recognized the flower, and gave the alarm 
to Leon of the theft. When the hats were found, 
minus the bouquets, there were two rueful faces ; 
and then, the flowers produced, Amelia confessed 
the deed, and Paul claimed mine — Leon, Amelia’s ; 
and the somewhat damaged bouquets were con- 
signed to the herbarium press, “for mementos of the 
perfidy of two ruthless maidens,” Paul declared. 

“ Minnette has been reading two hours this morn- 
ing,” said Amelia, with a significant glance at Leon, 
that I also caught. 

“ Swiss Family Robinson ? ” said Leon, indiffer- 
ently. 

It was the doctor’s turn to be amused. Some of 


STRIFE. 


259 


my first English translations were from that book ; 
and some of the errors were so absurd, when I con- 
jectured, rather than hunt for the correct interpre- 
tation, that they were repeated at dinner, to my fa- 
ther’s great amusement, by way of promoting the 
good digestion that should wait on appetite. 

Again Paul was the detective, and taking up the 
book that my sleeve only partially covered, he asked, 
“Where in all the world did this Shelley come 
from ? ” 

“At her old tricks, truly,” said Dr. Leon; “and 
see if you find any waving lead-marks, count : she 
will have completed her work then.” 

“Yes, here is one — ; ” but instantly his eyes fell 
from the page, and he said, “ I spoke too quickly,” 
closed the book, and returned it to me with a world 
of meaning in his gentle look. 

I had obeyed my usual impulse to mark what 
touched my own peculiar feeling — hope, or appre- 
hension — in the lines : 

“ When to thy home thou dost return^ 

Steep not its hearth in tears P 

Dr. Leon, wishing to know the train of reflections 
I had followed, opened the book again, and, turning 
to the mark, read the lines aloud. 

“ Now, the question that you have yourself sug- 
gested, my dear child, must be considered,” the doc- 
tor said, quietly ; but Leon, touched by the words 
he had read, so directly applicable to our sorrowful 
return to Immergriin, buried his face in his crossed 


26 o 


STRIFE. 


arms, as he lay on the ground ; and by his trem- 
bling we knew that he was weeping. 

“ I have been expecting some proposition the last 
two days,” I answered, calmly, “and would have 
mentioned it, only I was afraid it would be mistaken 
for restlessness on my part, when perhaps your plans 
were arranged for remaining here some time longer.” 

“ We have been waiting quietly for this manifes- 
tation of genuine improvement in our little patient,” 
said the doctor ; “ and she has anticipated my limit 
for the probation by a whole week.” 

Mother Lavinia disappeared, then Amelia “ was 
obliged to inquire about some mangling that was to 
be finished for Paul,” and Paul suddenly bethought 
him of “ a matter to be talked about with Ermita- 
no,” and the doctor was left to consult with two sad, 
sad hearts that longed for their home, and yet 
dreaded the desolation that would be more than 
ever realized in the familiar scenes of Immergrlin. 

But Leon could not subdue his outburst of grief, 
and the doctor urged him to rise from his prostrate 
position, and persuaded him to retire to his own 
room and rest awhile. “You are fatigued after your 
long walk, Leon; go rest awhile; and as Minnette 
is a host in herself, this morning we will no doubt 
arrange everything satisfactorily,” he said. 

But when Ldon had entered the house, and I 
turned to the doctor for his communication, he too 
had “ grown incapable of reasonable affairs,” and I 
stole away. Glancing back from the door of the 
hermitage, I saw the doctor in the position that 


STRIFE. 


261 

Leon had been induced to abandon, and I knew that 
between that strong heart and grief, no' earthly 
mediation could avail. 

He bewailed his only friejid, in the sense that such 
men call friendship, and I questioned whether it 
were wise to so concentrate friendly affections on 
one mortal, however worthy. Then two lines of 
Shelley again crossed my mind, though not strictly 
i applying to the doctor : 

j Alas, that love should be a blight and snare 

To those who seek all sympathies in one ! ” 

This frame of mind was very suitable for the pur- 
poses of some one then watching me with the hope 
that some caprice would arrest my steps as I slowly 
walked toward Amelia’s room. 

I At the end of a long passage-way in the hermit- 
age, a heavy oaken door had attracted my notice in 
|! passing, several times. With the revival of my in- 
I terest in other matters, a spirit of inquiry regarding 
I my locality had struggled into the possession of 
its proper faculty. 

I Without any other object than the reward of the 
! first prompting of that capacity for investigation ” 
since my residence at the hermitage, I opened the 
door — and lo ! I was in Ermitano’s sanctum. A 
long, low ceiling, frescoed rudely like the walls, with 
designs suggestive of Miltonic warfare, and the high- 
on-a-throne triumphs of a certain ruler in Pandemo- 
nium, first received attention. 

Had I only been left to my own conclusions, I 


262 


STRIFE. 


should have decided that if the fire was n’t hot 
enough* to melt, tan, or crack the thin skin of some 
of the victims of papal wrath represented in royal 
purple within dissolving proximity to even earthly 
caloric of half the quantity of that so appallingly 
represented in the frescoings, it was n’t such a terri- 
ble thing, after all, to receive the “ Depart ye ” — from 
Rome ! But Paul had witnessed my halting at the 
door, my entrance to the “ temple,” followed me, and 
remarked, “These absurd pictures, the ‘Last Judg- 
ment,’ in the Sistine Chapel, and all such horrible 
exhibitions are hideous ; and” — shutting his eyes 
with a negative shake of the head at the same time 
— “I dislike to look at them, or anything that re- 
minds me of future punishment.” 

“ Paul/’ I answered, “ these pictures are like the 
facts they foreshadow, very disagreeable ! ” 

“ You call it a fact that the awful denunciations of 
the pulpit are to be accomplished ! ” 

“ Do you call it a factf I retorted, “ that the mag- 
nificent promises are to be realized ? If so, produce 
your authority for the one more than the other.” 

“ But eternal love is God’s law ! ” 

“And eternal hate the devil’s,” I responded. 

“ But God is Omnipotent, and what can the devil’s 
hate do against that unlimited attribute ! ” 

“ In our Litany,” I replied, “ we are strictly en- 
joined to avoid all ‘doubtful disputations,’ but I may 
give a reason for the hope that is in me, without 
violating the injunction. If the word is not true, all 
its blessed promises are mere opiates for present 


I STRIFE. 263 

[ pain, and its threats inventions of ingenious agents 
I of the father of our miseries. But believing, as no 
i sane creature can help believing, that the word /s 
: true, we have much cause to fear the power of sin 
that could involve the Son of God in the sufferings 
of the first death, and tempt us to doubt the possi- * 
1' bility evefi of * the second death, which shall be worse 
j than the first ! ’ ” 

‘ Shuddering, and letting his eyes fall to the pave- 
ment, Paul said, “ Minnette, you have a way of say- 
' ing hard things, that precludes all contradiction, and 
: only makes me miserable ! ” 

“ And your own creed — has it no consolation for 
such emergencies ? ” I asked, with a touch of bitter- 
ness, feeling painfully the unwelcome accusation. 

“Minnette, I forgot; this subject can rest till you 
f: are stronger. I have another to discuss, that can- 
! not wait! On religious questions, I am for the pres- 
i! ent adrift, without compass or rudder, and have not 
’ the ensigns of Christian, Pagan, or Jew, wherewith 
to attract sympathy, much less the aid I may re- 
quire.” 

The confession gratified me. I felt convinced, 
j while we were in Sicily, of a gradual lifting of the 
I weight of Romish laws from Paul’s mind, that in 
i spite of his free expressions and seeming orthodoxy 
j ,on that memorable evening in Rome, was, after all,- 
I tinctured with the glow that reflects from the dyed 
I garments of the lady mother on the most distant 
I child of her household. Amelia had so carefully 
avoided all allusion to her religion, since her arrival 


264 


STRIFE. 


at the hermitage — and there was no time for her to 
mention it before — that I could not tell how she 
thought, but trusted there was a weeding out of 
whatever germs might have been implanted in her 
breast, that were contrary to the principles of her 
F'rotestant mother. I knew that Mademoiselle Beau- 
mont would not neglect her opportunity to begin 
the good work. Strangely enough, my interest, 
even in Mademoiselle Beaumont, had not been re- 
vived before that very morning, when all my nat- 
ural affections seemed to flow back to my heart, 
through the medium of the strength acquired in the 
conflict with Shelley’s fiery spirit. Lifted above, or 
sunk beneath the earth, with such an indomitable 
spirit, one must needs lose all consciousness of self^ 
and, hand to hand with powers of darkness, or blind- 
ing light, must fight royally for the truth. I had 
contended with Shelley, and conquered — myself — 
in losing myself! 

What had Paul to propose? 

Proposals of marriage are, like death-bolts, always 
unexpected! Anticipation fails to lessen the shock 
of either, and I have perfect faith in the genuine un- 
consciousness of the victims of such shocks, when, 
having more of that “wholesome dread’’ of the 
“superior sex’’ than Minnette de Stalberg could en- 
• tertain for anything not invested with wings, they 
quicken the palpitations of the proffered hearts, by 
falling gracefully into the arms that at once and for- 
ever clasp them to the aforesaid hearts. 

Let a woman, if she would be true to herself, 


STRIFE. 


265 

meet the question, the most important of her life, 
with due dignity, consideration, and acknowledg- 
ment of her sense of its importance. Where passion 
I sweeps aside all reason, there can no just law regu- 
i late the answer, or conduct of the settlement. But 
when all the world ” has known “ of at least an 
i understanding,” or, “a decided preference,” the party 
most concerned in the mysterious business of love- 
1 making, must be prepared for an eventual proposi- 
tion. The way a woman meets that event, will be all 
t' her life afterward a proud satisfaction or a humili- 
ating reflection. 

/ God help the woman who cannot look her hus- 
band in the eyes, and smile at the recollection of 
her acceptance of his manly proposition.^ ' 

There is magic power in the remembrance, if it be 
satisfactory to her, to heal wounds to self-love, ban- 
' ish doubts, and revive the fond fancies that then 
I elevated the object of her love, and justified her 
■ idolatry. And when God shall separate what man 
|i may not put asunder, through all time that one mo- 
[ ment of perfect communion of hearts will serve to 
ij redeem the hours lost in the chaos of separation! 

I “ Minnette, after all the doctor’s brave beginning, 

' he has told you nothing of our failures in planning 
1! anything that seems to him practicable regarding 
l| our going out of Italy as soon as we thought we 
I might?” 

I ‘‘No — ” I replied, in a maze of wonderment. 

I “And I do not understand what you mean by 
; ‘ plans ’ and ‘ failures.’ Are not the passports still 

i 23 

I 

I 


266 


STRIFE, 


good? and isn’t it absolutely impossible for the 
doctor to remain absent from Mahren Castle ? ” ^ 

Oh, that exasperating smile ! And I was always 
doomed to meet it in the eyes I loved best to meet! 

“ Shall'we talk here ? ” Paul asked. “ It is a quiet 
old chapel, and no one will be likely to interrupt us. 
So sit in this chair, and let me be Sir Oracle, since 
our good friend has dropped the wand I ” 

“ I have taxed his kindness, and would regret it 
if I did not feel assured that in serving my father’s 
children, he finds the best consolation for his own 
grief,” I said. 

“ Minnette, your faith in friendship is marvellous I ” 
Paul exclaimed. 

“ No, Paul ; you mistake. I do not even acknowl- 
edge the possibility of friendships. The three cove- 
nants that are mentioned in the Scriptures and that 
we interpret friendships, were inspired recognitions 
of mutual needs in a spiritual sense. Jonathan and 
David sealed each new promise of friendly support 
with the reminder, ^ forasimich as we have sworn both 
of ns m the name of the Lord! And John, the 

beloved disciple, was only chosen for the consola- 
tion of Mary when the Son should ‘go away from 
her I ’ And Ruth confirmed her vow of fidelity to 
Naomi with ‘ The Lord do so to me, and more also, 
if aught but death part thee and me ! ’ ” 

“ So, Minnette, you have fairly given the princi- 
ples of jw;' faith in male friendships — as of David 
and Jonathan ; in female friendships — as in Naomi 
and Ruth ; and friendships between the two sexes — 


STRIFE. 


267 

as in the case of Mary and the disciple. And short 
of these inspired and ordained covenants, you deny 
^all existence of friendship ?” 

“Yes; and Heaven preserve me from the 'habits 
of friendship,’ ‘ customs of friendship,’ and whatever 
name the blandishments of society may furnish for 
the associations of the cold, unprincipled, deceitful, 
treacherous, cunning, and self-loving impostors, with 
the impulsive, unsuspecting, courageous, heedless, 
and short-sighted creatures who accept the flattery 
of the first for the genuine wine of inspiration that 
unseen messengers are only waiting to give them, while 
they are checked in their genuine aspirations by 
human clogs! ’’ 

“ I forswear friendship from this moment, and de- 
clare myself a candidate for a covenant between thee 
and me, which is ‘ commanded of the Apostle to be 
honorable among all men.’ ” 

That shock was a little too sudden for me even to 
comprehend it at once, and I saw Paul’s startled eyes 
through the haze that floated before my own. I 
stood on my feet, when I did realize the position 
into which I had been cunningly ensnared, and in an 
instant I weighed and answered the proposition to 
my own conscience. 

“ Minnette, I almost hoped to surprise your heart 
into a confession, when your judgment was preoccu- 
pied. I am not worthy of the confidence that you 
must repose in whatever you love, but it is a delight- 
ful hope that your love for me may bear my soul up 
to the throne of God, side by side with your own. 


I can but gaze up at you on that stupendous level ; 
but when you come down to my heart — you will 
come, Minnette — yoii alone are there — and now — you 
are my divinest love !” 

What we said then, none may ever know but the 
cloud of witnesses who, with their beatified vision, 
saw our hearts thrilling with the measure of our 
mutual joy, and believed that was truth / 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


DECEPTION ! 

B efore we left the chapel, Paul pointed out to 
me a large crimson curtain that hung in an 
archway into which we ascended by several marble 
steps, the top one forming a broad platform, as if at 
some time an altar had stood there. 

“ This curtain divided the altar outside from the 
one that was formerly inside the chapel,” said Paul; 
and pulling aside the folds till I passed through, he 
brought me to the platform on which Ermitano 
stood morning and evening to conduct the services 
for the mountaineers. 

I had not yet witnessed the services, and sup- 
posed they were the usual Romish prayers and 
chants. 

“ Would you like to be present this evening at the 
chanting of the Litany ? The effect is grand in this 
old forest ; and if you are as much comforted as Leon 
has been with the repetition of his own Moravian 
Litany, it will be my greatest happiness to enjoy the 
• service with you ! ” 

“ Moravian — Litany — here ? ” I exclaimed. 

“ Minnette, you have been so ill, that nothing has 
come under your notice of the affairs of these people, 
23 * 269 


2/0 


STRIFE. 


and even the good news Amelia has to tell you, the 
doctor thought best to withhold till you gained your 
present strength ! ” 

'‘Ah, I know,” I answered confidently. “Amelia 
has been a blessing to Leon, and she would greatly 
have disappointed me if she had refused to marry 
him.” 

“ That is not all the news — I will tejl — but let 
Amelia give you her own version of Mademoiselle 
Beaumont’s mission of love to my sweet sister. At 
Lorraine, they hunted out every trace of our dear 
mother’s Protestant faith, in her journals, letters, and 
among the families she had enriched with her les- 
sons of simple faith, and by her own practice of self- 
denial for their sakes, being often subject to perse- 
cutions in a petty way, that she could not prevent, or 
even confess to my father, lest he should suffer on 
her account from the prejudices of the court against 
the Protestants. In her journal, she mentioned the 
loss of her infant daughter, repeatedly bemoaning 
her disappointment, and yet expressing a conviction 
that had the child lived, greater sorrow than the in- 
fant’s death might have been her portion, in the liv- 
ing sorrow of her burial in a convent, when she was 
grown. And without mentioning his name, she 
clearly alluded to Emil Beaumont as the unscrupu- 
lous confessor, who would have accomplished her 
child’s fate, if only to secure her inheritance for the 
Church. Of his actual treachery, she evidently had 
not the least suspicion. It was my mother’s own 
patience under oppression, and her gentle behavior 


STRIFE. 


271 


toward the priest, that first caused him to regret his 
wickedness. And then he even insisted on Lavinia’s 
preventing the very object he had sought to gain 
by his wickedness. Amelia’s devotions were limited, 
as you know, to the mere attendance at prayers, in 
Rome, while she was withheld from the confessional 
and mass. Now, she is a confirmed Moravian ; and, 
when she returns to Immergrlin with you, will unite 
with the Church.” 

Some warm drops splashed on my hands, and 
then I knew I was crying; but I was happy, and I 
: said : 

' Paul, * my cup runneth over ’ with the happiness 
I we have now, and for the hope that we will all at last 
\ be gathered in the same fold of the Good Shepherd, 
who has so graciously cared for us in our tribula- 
tion.” 

I re-entered the chapel, and finding Ermitano there, 

I I left Paul with him, while I went to see if Leon had 
I slept, and where the doctor had gone. He had left 
: the arbor, I noticed, as I glanced toward it from the 
« outside altar. 

He was in Leon’s room, and not hearing my quiet 
I! entrance — I did not wish to waken Leon if he was 

I i sleeping — he uttered a sentence that petrified my 
I heart, crushed every hope, blotted out all the bright 
>1 visions pictured in my imagination for future bliss, 
in one instant of time ! 

“ Paul is a noble fellow,” he said. I felt it would 
be wrong to conceal the truth, and told him all she 
was threatened with, related every circumstance of her 


272 


STRIFE. 


mother’s malady, and yet he answered, ‘My life and 
hers are bound in one fate, and I will yield to no- 
thing but death ! ’ ” 

I lived in spite of fate, I think, when I turned, or 
rather moved backward from that door, and walked 
to my own room. Amelia found me standing like 
a statue, perfectly cold and immovable. 

“ Minnette ! what is the matter ? ” The voice 
reached the doctor. He hurried to me, and I simply 
answered, when he spoke to me: 

“ I heard what you told Leon. My heart must be 
made of iron if it does not break now ! ” 

“What did you hear — every word — repeat to 
me!” 

It was easy to do. Each word was graven on 
my brain in letters of fire. When I concluded, the 
doctor said : 

“ Now hear the rest, child, as you might have 
heard, if you had only waited a moment longer. 
Everything depends on yourself. If you yield to 
every whim of your morbid fancies, if you dream 
while you are awake, and awake when you should 
be dreaming, if you do not at once live for some 
special purpose, your mind will become hopelessly 
diseased, and, young as you are, you may live to be 
a wretched and miserable burden to all who love 
you. But it is in your own power to be — what you 
always have been to me — a bright little sunbeam ; 
and you know whose path you can gild with your 
light 1 ” 

“ Sister, those are the very words that the doctor 


STRIFE. 273 

said to me, and you know he means what he tells 
us,” said Leon ! 

Amelia moved toward the door, and met some 
one coming ; I did not see who it was. I only heard 
the steps, and cried out : “ Tell Paul not to come to 
me; I cannot see him. I will not!"' 

Amelia, you have something to tell Minnette,” 
Dr. Leon quietly answered, ignoring my impatient 
speech. Tell her all immediately. When she is 
ready to talk with me, I will come and say good- 
by ! ” 

‘‘ Good - by ! doctor, what do you mean ! — you 
are angry — oh, what shall I do ! ” Leon hastily 
left the room. 

“ I am not a whit angry; only I have made such a 
hash of to-day’s business that I shall trust Amelia’s 
feminine wit to relate to you all I would have com- 
municated.” 

The voice was so free from any expression of an- 
noyance even, and there was such encouragement in 
it for me to take hold of, that I was reassured against 
my obstinate will. 

“Bear with me only a little longer; I will be more 
reasonable when I am stronger,” I said, imploringly. 

“My dear child, no one but yourself is impatient; 
only have confidence in my judgment and my prom- 
ises, and I ask nothing more of you. If I did not 
know your actual strength of purpose where you 
make a resolve, I would not have permitted your 
betrothal; but with another’s happiness in your 
hands, I knew you would forget all else ; and that 
S 


274 


STRIFE. 


is the chief remedy for the malady with which you ' , 
were threatened, but which you have bravely con- 
quered. So great a shock as that which caused 
your illness seldom comes to any one person to , 
bear, and you have before you the promise of great . 
happiness in your future; — but Ameliar must tell 
you ; and then Lavinia can bring your broth, and I . 
wish you to rest after that.” 

Kissing my forehead, the doctor left us alone — 
Amelia and myself; and I caught each word that 
fell like a pearl from her lips, when she folded me • 
in her arms and said, “ My friend, my sister, we V 
are orphaned alike; but each has a precious gift for >' 
the other. I would be unhappy if you refused my 
gift, Paul’s noble, generous heart ; and let me show ■ 
you how, in accepting Leon’s from you, I have as | 
much reason for hesitation as yourself. Our mother j 
was affected, before her death, almost the same as j| 
your mother, and yet, as is the case in your own f 
family, no further trace of the malady can be found. ■ 
If it could be, let me tell you candidly I think we 
have no right to refuse alliance with those who have 
chosen us for their companions through life, on the 
ground of any temporary disease of our parents. 
There would be few marriages, and more distress in ' 
the world than exists now, if it were the rule to con- 
sider the health of the parents before the happiness 
of the children. No right law could be made for 
such cruel prohibition.” ' 

How her words, her voice, her touch soothed ■ 
and comforted me ! We sat on the side of my low 


STRIFE. 


^75 


narrow bed, and I rested my head on Amelia’s 
breast while she continually passed her hand over 
my forehead and smoothed down my disordered hair, 
that the wind had entangled into hopeless twists of 
frowzy locks, and sleep fell like a shower of ether- 
spray over my senses. I made no resistance when 
Amelia said, “You shall not be wearied with my 
talking ; ” and loosening the eord of my robe, she 
placed me on my pillow, and continuing the move- 
ments with her magnetic hand a moment or two over 
my forehead and down over my eyelids, she steeped 
my brain, heart, and body in a profound slumber ! 

When I awoke, Lavinia was in the roorh, with 
the basin of broth and a glass of wine ready for 
my refreshment ; and I really felt hungry for it, to 
the old woman’s great satisfaction. 

“ Now,’’ she said, when I had finished the broth 
and tasted the wine, “ there is to be a marriage cere- 
mony at the evening service, and the doctor, will 
take you to the inside altar, where you can look on 
without being seen through the whole service. But 
it is customary for every one present to wear white ; 
so I have a robe here for you that was made at a 
neighboring convent for an Italian lady when she 
was in her novitiate. You can wear that; Amelia 
has one too.” 

Amelia answered Lavinia’s knock on the parti- 
tion between our rooms, and came immediately to 
my room. 

When the door opened I could scarcely credit my 
senses. Anything more lovely I never saw than 


3/6 


STRIFE. 


Amelia in her bride-like robes. She wore a train 
of white muslin, so fine and white, it fell like snow- 
wreaths around her feet. The waist, gathered into 
a belt, and fitting plain on the neck, was finished at 
the throat with a lace edge, fine but of a simple pat- 
tern. Wide flowing sleeves, edged with lace, partly 
displayed her beautiful white arms, a narrow gold 
band on each wrist being the only ornaments she 
wore. Her hair was braided and looped ; a spray 
of white flowers — “a peasant had brought for her,” 
she said — was twined with the braid that crossed 
the forepart of her head, and even that trying con- 
trast of dead-white flowers in her jet-black hair did 
not affect in the least her clear, beautiful complexion. 

“ You are a little more pale than usual,” I re- 
marked ; but your eyes have so much brilliancy 
this evening, that they seem to give warmth to the 
rest of your countenance in spite of its pallor.” 

“ I shall smile, Minnette, if you try to flatter me ; 
and smiles are objectionable to S07ne people ^ you 
know.” 

I was soon arrayed in a robe similar to Amelia’s, 
my hair freshly curled, and simply smoothed off of 
my temples. 

“You must not be fatigued by the fuss of prepara- 
tion that these mountaineers expect of one,” said old 
Lavinia ; and then seeing there was no further orna- 
ment to be added to my dress, she said to Amelia, 
“ Signora, you had better go with the count and the 
— Signore Leon. Dr. Leon will take Mademoiselle 
de Stalberg to the chapel.” 


STRIFE. 277 

Amelia turned and embraced me, kissing me on 
each cheek, and said: 

“ If Paul joins you, remember he is sad on ac- 
count of your trouble, to-day; be very tender, for 
his heart is easily moved.” 

She saw my answer in my face, and, kissing me 
again, turned quickly away. 

The doctor came for me a moment after Amelia 
left the room, and I went leisurely to the chapel, 
wondering how the peasants would look in their 
holiday finery; curious to see them, and yet dreading 
the effect of the scene on my feelings, that were lia- 
ble to betray me to tears, or even sobs, if the music 
of the peasants touched my heart. 

The service had begun when the doctor and I 
came to the platform inside the curtain ; and peep- 
ing out, as the doctor held the folds so I could look 
without being seen, a pretty sight it was ! The men 
and boys, about one hundred in number, were in 
their gayest costumes; hats and vests were deco- 
rated with flowers and ribbons. The hats were not 
removed from their heads, in the open air, unless 
they were kneeling in prayer. The women and girls 
were decked with all the flowers, ribbons, and orna- 
ments they could command ; and I was surprised to 
see that, after all Lavinia’s saying they were so par- 
ticular about white dresses, only the front row of 
young girls, in the centre of which the bride and 
groom sat, wore the white robes. Amelia, Leon, 
and Paul were nowhere to be seen. 

After the usual evening service, a band of moun- 
24 


2/8 


STRIFE. 


tain minstrels — harpers, violin-players, and piffiarri 
— immediately played and sang some of their most 
beautiful airs, and the bridal party arranged them- 
selves for the marriage ceremony. I did not notice 
when the change was made, but I discovered, after 
the ceremony began, that Paul was beside me, and 
the doctor had gone away. 

I was moved to tears at the service, reminding me 
of Immergrlin, and the enjoyment Leoni and I had 
shared at the ceremonies in our own chapel. 

When the blessing had been pronounced for the 
bridal pair, and all was ended but the congratulations 
for the bride and groom, Paul let the curtain close 
quickly, and, taking my hand, said, audibly — we 
were alone : 

“ Minnette, kneel with me, and say, if I walk 
worthy of you, shall we two nevermore be parted in 
this life ? ” 

“ Nor in the life to come ! ” I answered, kneeling 
with him. 

“Then, 'what God hath joined together, let no 
man put asunder ! ’ ” 

The curtain glided away, and Leon and Amelia 
were kneeling at the side of the altar, Ermitano 
stood facing Paul and myself; and, holding his hand 
over mine, as it rested in Paul’s, he continued, with 
the same voice that had struck silence into my very 
soul : “ In the name of God, the Father, the Son, 
and the Holy Ghost, ye are now joined together, to 
live in holy wedlock as husband and wife ! ” 

Then to Amelia and Paul the .same words were 


STRIFE. 


279 


repeated, as they had declared their betrothal at the 
same time with Paul and myself. Then all the 
peasants knelt as Ermitano said : Receive ye the 
blessing of the Lord ! ” 

A deep, musical Amen was responded to the bless- 
ing, and then the air, the forest, the chapel seemed 
to be throbbing, pulsating with waves of music, and 
the whole scene disappeared from my sight ! 

I opened my eyes on Dr. Leon, who was alone 
with me in the chapel. A bench near the platform 
was my lounge, and my head rested on the doctor’s 
arm as he knelt beside me. 

“ Well, my little lady, now you have a husband to 
take care of you, the adopted father can go the way 
of all adopted fathers on such occasions, I suppose!” 

I am almost afraid to trust you, or believe even 
what you say,” I answered. 

“ Then let me resign you at once — ” 

No,” I replied, quickly, “ I appreciate the ar- 
rangement. I remembered your telling me ‘you 
must say good-by,’ the moment Ermitano spoke. 
And it would have been impossible for me to have 
gone through this ceremony, or to have consented 
to any formal service, however private, if I had been 
warned of it, while my heart swells in my throat, or 
brims over at my eyes, when I am the least moved. 
I am not sorry ; if you think it best to leave us here. 
It was the only way you could manage for us.” 

“There you are, safe and sound! and Minnette 
de Stalberg never said anything more sensible than 


28 o 


STRIFE. 


what the Countess de I’Etoile has this moment orac- 
ularly uttered ! ” 

Saying this, the doctor conducted me to my room, 
talking in the same strain all the way, and claiming 
at the door a bride’s kiss. 1 gave it heartily, and 
received a fervent blessing in return. Old Lavinia 
was waiting for me, and, changing my dress for the 
morning robe, left me to rest alone, till Amelia 
joined me, bringing the intelligence I was not sur- 
prised to receive. The doctor had informally taken 
his departure for Immergrlin, and Leon and Paul 
were escorting him part the way through the forest. 

Amelia had put on her morning robe again, and 
sat beside me, practising some airs on a guitar, whose 
soothing tone sent me on an empyreal expedition 
out of the body ! 


! 


« 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


, OUT OF THE BODY. 

I WAS soaring above the form that I recognized 
as mine, slumbering on the bed at the hermitage. 
The features of my ethereal form were not different, 
but the property of weight gone, the earth losing 
its force of attraction, and the atmosphere offering 
no impediment to my free movement, 

I made no exertion to move : even my will could 
rest, and I be attracted in pleasant currents of elec- 
trical light — not air, for breath seemed suspended : 
I was attracted wherever my sympathies could har- 
monize. 

i I found myself in the old library at Immergrlin. 
Madame Leon and Ethel were there with Mademoi- 
selle Beaumont. Each one had a sorrow or an anxiety 
brooding in her heart. Ethel’s was merely sympa- 
thetic, and not individually defined. 

I Madame’s mind was crowded with images of Leon, 
my brother. 

Now she would see him struggling in a hand-to- 
hand encounter with brigands ; again, he would rush 
in advance of a troop to inevitable death; then, 
trampled under the feet of a restless crowd, striving 
24 * 281 


282 


STRIFE. 


to catch words of encouragement from a desperate 
enthusiast. 

At my approach these fancies diminished in vivid- 
ness in Madame’s mind, and a vague anxiety on my 
account seemed to take their place. Ethel was in- 
fluenced only by the genial light that accompanied 
me, as I was drawn toward her, and our sympathies 
were in such perfect accord, that I had only to wish 
joyousness for her, and the light was instantly re- 
flected from her beautiful countenance. 

Mademoiselle Beaumont sighed when I drew near 
to her, as if oppressed by some inexpressible sad- 
ness. When I threw on her the light that cheered 
Ethel, she covered her face in her hands, and shivered 
as a body cold of itself, will shudder in the sun’s 
rays ! Spirits were all about her, and their whis- 
perings were not alike. Some filled her heart with 
apprehension. Some subdued her fears, but none 
sought to conceal the cause for her anxiety of mind, 
that gradually took the form of a distinct and per- 
fect phantom picture, as delicate in outline and 
ethereal in its unsubstantial coloring, as the dream 
my mother had painted for me, when Mademoiselle 
Beaumont came toward Immergriin, two years be- 
fore. 

I saw the vision as Mademoiselle was seeing it; 
and interpreted it for myself; but I took heed to 
avoid lending her my power to confirm the convic- 
tions she dared not acknowledge even to her own 
heart. 

She saw a broad blue sea, like the Mediterra- 


STRIFE. 


283 


nean. A ship stood solitary on the sea, with all its 
white sails spread, and glistening in the sunlight. 
Leon stood alone on the ship, inspired with an irre- 
sistible longing to risk a perilous voyage, and with- 
held from the attempt by the force of the affection 
for Amelia, that filled his heart. The white sails 
symbolized the purity and unselfishness of the mo- 
tives impelling him to go — the intense blue of 
the sea, the strong hope of success. But overhead 
the blue canopy changed to a golden yellow, signi- 
fying the end of human hope; and then its hues 
were purple, meaning by this mingling of blue — 
hope — and black — the privation of light, that his 
hope was without reason ! 

A breeze seemed to stir the sails ; and instantly 
a crew of sailors surrounded Leon. He glanced 
over the sea to where a long line of white beach 
gleamed at the foot of frowning palisades, half veiled 
with purple mist. A fortress on the palisades was 
screened, and its battlements festooned with purple 
cloud-wreaths. 

The order to raise the anchor was expected, and 
already the sailors’ hands were on the ropes, when 
Leon heard, in spite of the moaning waves, the roar 
of cannon from the impatient sentinels on the dis- 
tant battlements, and the jests of the merry crew, 
those still, small voices, too fine for unattuned ears, 
warning, dissuading, and exhorting him, but vainly ! 
The order was already on his lips to be uttered, 
when the library, just as it was, Madame, Ethel, 
and Mademoiselle sitting in brooding silence there, 


284 


STRIFE. 


appeared pictured on the sails, and Amelia and my 
sleeping figure at the hermitage formed a separate 
group, while in a circle around the three who sat by 
the deserted hearth in the old castle, the forms of 
my mother, father, Leoni, Father Beaumont, and 
two others, who resembled Amelia and Paul, and 
seemed in sympathy with the rest in trying to draw 
Leon with all the power of spirit force, to his home, 
whispered in murmurs that floated in harmonious 
notes to Leon’s hearing : 

“ Bide with us, lest ill befall thee. 

Heed them not who bid thee roam; 

Loving hearts would fain recall thee 
To the dear old hearth and home!^^ 

The sea, the skies, the ship, and its spirit-forms and 
living groups all faded. I felt a strong attraction 
drawing me from Mademoiselle Beaumont’s side, 
and, whispering, My peace I leave with theeP I 
awoke ! 

Amelia was practising an air on a guitar at my 
window, and the full moon had flooded my floor with 
its intense white light. Paul stood gazing in my 
face; I held out both hands to him as I rose 
from my pillow, and we went out of the room so 
quietly that Amelia was not conscious of our move- 
ment. 

My heart was full ; I felt I must tell my dream to 
Paul, and all the secret of my inner life ! 

We walked straight to the chapel ; I fancied it 
would be easier to say what I wished, on the spot 


STRIFE. 


285 


where I had resigned my separate existence for the 
mysterious union that time itself might not break, 
and that with the dissolution of the body would be- 
come even more perfect ; no discordant earthly vari- 
ance interfering with the final complete unison. 

When I opened that chapel door in the morning, 
how little suspicion I had of the new life opening 
before me ! How completely with it I shut out the 
past ! 

Drawing aside the curtain on the platform, we 
sat under the archway, partly sheltered from the chill 
night air, and yet commanding a glorious moon- 
light view of forest, mountain, and a broad stream 
of water that glanced with its myriad golden eyes at 
the moon as it seemed to rise in the swift race with 
her, over its stony bed, purling and gurgling with 
gleeful content. 

Paul, I have some questions to ask,” — instantly 
his face betrayed anxiety ; but not till I have told 
you all I have experienced, apart from anything I 
have ever confessed to any one ! ” 

The response was not audible, but decidedly de- 
monstrative, and entirely satisfactory ! 

Until you are ready to explain our delay,” I 
began, “ I shall patiently wait your pleasure. Besides, 
this uncertainty of each day’s plans for my resting 
or moving, agrees with the habit that I have acquired 
of an illusory existence — associating with the ma- 
terial world about me the ethereal people of my 
dream-world. Only, I must introduce you, Paul, for T 
am not willing to be alone even in my fancies now ! ” 


286 


STRIFE. 


I related everything — my dream at Immergrun, 
the arrival of Father Beaumont and Mademoiselle, 
my mother’s request, its strange suggestion, and the 
fact that only myself had been the interpreter of 
coincidences 'of events with the predictions of the 
signs and visions. 

“So, when rny sail was bringing me to Sorrento, 
and you saw the phosphorescent gleams in the sha- 
dow of the canvas, you took them for a response 
to the fire in that opal Amelia gave you?” Paul said, 
drawing the ring from my finger. “ What a will-o’- 
the-wisp it is,” he continued, laughing at the sug- 
gestion ; “ but it has no business with your lively 
imagination. It shall no longer be a circle of per- 
petual apparition ; and the stars it has pretended to 
point out, that never set, shall leave our orbit this 
very evening! And this — ” I closed my hand 
when my mother’s ring began to follow the other 
from my finger; but by some sleight-of-hand Paul 
managed to get that too. “ We will call that one 
the circle of perpetual occultation, that has answered 
your unwarranted ambition to have revelations of 
other spheres than your own natural one. You 
have, like the young Abdallah, used a mysterious 
treasure that fulfilled its mission in symbolizing the 
eternity of your mother’s love ; and every time you 
have attempted to pry into its mysteries, your poor 
little nerves have had a thwack I ” 

I could not contradict- this extemporized theory, 
and could still less adopt it; but I watched with a 
singular satisfaction Paul’s serious business-like way 


STRIFE. 


2Sy 

of disposing of the rings. Tearing off the blank 
leaf of a note, he wrapped them both together and 
placed them in a vest-pocket. Then taking both 
my hands in his, and looking straight in my eyes, 
he said : 

“ I will exchange promises with you. I will do 
all that is consistent with my manhood in trying to 
comprehend as you do the simple religious points 
on which we may differ now. Your faith in the Son 
of God is to my mind the most beautiful, and I be- 
lieve the most elevating, of all creeds. I trust your 
prayers and my own will bring the same faith to my 
heart as well as to my understanding. In return I 
ask you to relinquish at once all belief in any special 
ministration, through your frail life, of powers of 
light or darkness, earth or heaven, to any one but 
myself. And as my exactions will be limited to 
common necessities, I shall call for no unearthly 
tribute that will require supernatural gifts for you. 
Will you grant me this request?” 

“ Paul,” I answered, though I trembled at the 
thought of his disappointment, “what you ask is 
impossible ! I have no longer the power to say / 
will or I %vill not in reference to these matters so dif- 
ficult for me to express even. They affect me with- 
out my will. They are distinct intuitions, having 
nothing to do with my faith.” 

“ I doubt not your faith* has more latitude than 
most people’s. Now, Minnette, if you are not weary 
of the subject, tell me exactly your idea of an or- 
thodox faith.” 


288 


STR IFE. 


“Wearied with talking to you, Paul?” I replied. 
“ I am strong in the very confidence that I can walk 
through life with you and never grow weary.” 

“And we will count time only by heart-throbs,” 
said Paul, his voice betraying how deeply he was 
touched by my confession. 

“ But, Paul,” I interrupted, “ when either heart has 
ceased to beat — ” 

He drew me closer to his heart, as if to repel some 
threatening fear, and when I persisted in my ques- 
tioning, “ What then, Paul ? ” 

He replied, quickly, “ Then the one who is left 
will have ample leisure to investigate your separate 
theoiy T' 

He laughed as he emphasized the last two words ; 
but, seeing I could not return his amused look with 
anything but a quiet assent to his humor, he again 
asked : 

“ Will you tell me your view of the safest doc- 
trine for us finite beings ? ” 

“ Paul, how artful you are ! ” I exclaimed, “ forcing 
me to reason when I would rather indulge in rev- 
ery — if any one besides yourself interfered with 
my mood ; but I can tell you in very few words. I 
believe that God reveals His will to mankind gen- 
erally, through the teachings of His life, and that 
of His apostles, as they are written in the Holy 
Scriptures alone. They comprehend a law sufficient 
for the guidance of men’s actions ; and, as there 
is a gradual, but very perceptible development of 
the faculty of understanding and reasoning in men, 


STRIFE. 


289 

these scriptural teachings are assuming higher sig- 
nificance. Men look for more than the mere security 
by faith and obedience of God’s ^ Enter thou! Some 
attain to Pentecostal inspiration, and speak as they 
are moved beyond their limited understanding, teach- 
ing the beginning on this side the vale of the enjoy- 

i ment of the hallowed pursuits of the blessed.” 

“And do you ask for yourself,” said Paul, “more 
latitude than this ? ” 

i “ I ask only my daily bread, as I lisped the prayer 
I at my mother’s knee,” I replied; “but some power 
within me makes what you call unreal, more palpa- 
ble to me than the very material world about me. 
Paul,” I said, “ help me, if you can, to drown the 
voice of this monitor. When I am awake my na- 
ture instinctively obeys its mysterious voice, and in 
dreams I yield to its enchantment ; but, when I an; 
with you, my heart and conscience cry for release 
from the unnatural subjection ! ” 

! “ O God ! what a treasure am I answerable for ! 

' Minnette, my wife, you have filled my soul with 
an ineffable delight in this outpouring of your 
1 heart and mind unreservedly to my keeping. You 
are my hope, my faith, and the sweet charity that 
j| would bless all worlds. But I cannot afford to 
ii yield to any — but the Heavenly One who restores 
i you richer to me- — one thought that I may not 
i share.” 

; “You possess every secret of my mind,” I an- 
# swered, “ and shall always ! ” 

“ Oh, I forgot to ask you why the name of Ruth 
25 T 


I 


290 


STRIFE. 


was given to you when you were baptized, as the 
doctor said it was, in writing it for Ermitano this 
morning.” 

“ Why, the Moravians retain the custom of giving 
a name from the Scriptures, not for us to ask the in- 
tercession of the saints, but to have a special regard 
for the grace that originated the name.” 

“ Ruth means mercy, tenderness, and sorrow for 
another’s suffering. These graces are expressed in 
every act of your life, my love ; and see how I have 
had this little plain gold band, the emblem of our 
pure, eternal love, inscribed.” 

I held the ring so I could read plainly, '' Paul 
Ruth, fidP' 

Placing it on my finger, Paul said, “ Now our dual 
life has but one aim, one eternal purpose, and must 
continue, as it has begun, with perfect mutual confi- 
dence, ' forasmiich as we have both sworn in the name of 
the Lord!' ” 

“Amen ! ” a voice responded. 

It was Leon, who came to look after us ; and he 
declared “ he could not leave without disturbing us, 
and had no power to speak till the Amen surged up 
from his heart, from perfect fulness of sympathy.” 

“And where is Amelia?” asked Paul; “not far 
off, I suspect.” 

“ She is coming to lecture you for keeping Min- 
nette in this night air.” 

“She is well protected,” said Paul, drawing around 
me the mantle he had caught from a' hook on my 
door as we passed out. But, hearing Amelia ap- 


STRIFE. 291 

proach, he threw over my head the cape of the man- 
tle, like a capuchin hood. 

Amelia glanced at me, and seemed quite satisfied 
with my apparent tranquillity, and then remarked, 
looking at my wrapping : 

Really, Paul, you deserve credit for being a 
thoughtful husband already. I know well enough 
Minnette did not guard herself so carefully.” 

‘^Amelia, you are my own amiable sister,” said 
Paul, with a malicious smile at Leon. 

“ But not to be imposed upon, for all that,” said 
Leon, affecting indignation. 

And he straightway told the truth. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


CHARACTER. 



AYS glided into weeks ; the dewy green foliage 


of summer faded and withered, and autumn 
came grandly into our forest-home, clothing the old 
trees in gorgeous array, spreading a bright carpet 
under our feet, and deepening the rich coloring of 
our sky with the orange and purple of autumn sun- 


sets. 


If such happiness, so unalloyed, as we two sisters, 
two brothers, two husbands, two wives experienced, 
could be continued uninterrupted, the pearly gates 
might stand ajar, and the shining ones might beckon 
us to come in vain, I thought, singing to myself : 


“ We would not leave our earth so fair 
For all their hallowed joys; 


Their golden harps to our love-notes 
Would be but angels’ toys ! ” 


What is that you are singing, Minnette ? ” asked 
Amelia. 

Some invention of her own, I know by the tune,” 
said Leon. “ That tune never accompanies anything 
but her own words, and, profane or sacred, it mat- 


STRIFE. 293 

ters not to her, the occasion sanctifies the senti- 
ment.” 

Amelia laughed merrily at this provoking speech, 
and to sustain my assumed indignation I was obliged 
to pull the rim of my broad hat over my eyes. 

“ Come, sir, that is a libel, and if you cannot make 
sufficient excuse for your mistake, you must answer 
for the offence to an outraged husband,” said Paul. 

Well,” answered Leon, ” if you would be patient, 
I could prove it by actual fact. I have heard sister 
sing regular May-songs on Sunday, and when Nan- 
nine checked her, she declared ‘ it was right .to let 
her heart sing jubilees, and she always felt happy on 
Sundays.’ Then, ten chances to one, we would have 
the most mournful chants all day Monday, and she 
insisted ‘ it was the solemn impression the Sabbath 
. had made!’” 

Leon’s serious face and comic gestures, while he 
related this absurdity, were irresistible, and we all 
made the old woods resound with our shouts of 
laughter. 

“ What shall I say to him, Minnette ? ” 

Bring him to me, and I will punish him I ” I re- 
plied, threateningly. 

l\ Leon tried to escape, but Paul was too quick for 
l| him, and brought him struggling to my feet. I 
kissed him heartily, and said, “ Paul, he is a dear 
good brother, and only means to divest me ot the 
wings that your imagination has furnished. You 
need not fear, any of you, that I shall take any new 
flights. My mission is so clearly to keep all three 
25^ 


294 


STRIFE. 


of you in order, that I could n’t think of leaving you 
to your own mischievous devices ! ” 

“ There, Mr. Enraged Husband, that is all the grat- 
itude you get for interfering between brother and 
sister,” said Amelia. 

“Amelia, Minnette set you a better example for 
sisterly conduct at least,” said Paul. 

“ Don’t let him hoodwink you, Amelia ; he does n’t 
deserve a kiss of gratitude, as I did ! ” said Leon. 

“Then he shall have one of reconciliation,” said 
Amelia ; and the beautiful face that bent over Paul’s 
upturned eyes as he lay on the leafy carpet, ex- 
pressed more than forgiveness — it was grateful 
remembrance ! 

“Sister!” said Paul, suddenly — as if something 
in Amelia’s expression before she kissed him had 
suggested an idea he was afraid would escape him 
before it was well defined — “ what gave you the im- 
pression you received^ and that you have transmit- 
ted to Minnette, of the Countess Darree. Minnette’s 
idea of friendships, as they are commonly called, has 
a tinge of infidelity, and on occasion, as I once heard 
it” — he paused to catch my eye, but I pretended 
utter unconsciousness of his mischievous glance — 
“the Countess de I’Etoile can deliver a homily on 
false profession equal to old Lavinia’s Romish ex- 
positions I She has not gained her knowledge from 
actual contact with deceit and envy, and her tones 
betrayed more feeling on the subject than a mere 
notion could convey; so, as you possessed her sympa- 


STRIFE. 295 

thies entire on that question, let me know how you 
both came to your conclusion.” 

“ The Countess Darree is afflicted more now than 
I was when she incurred my dislike, so let her 
name be mentioned only with pity, Paul,” answered 
Amelia. 

“No,” said Paul, emphatically; “I have determined 
to understand that false-hearted beauty’s system of 
deceit. Her sorrow is but the common lot of all, and 
does not exempt her from trial for her faults.” 

“ That interests me also, Amelia,” said Leon, 
‘*for I am thinking about accepting two or . three 
flattering invitations to her ladyship’s villa, and un- 
less you give satisfactory reason for not accepting 
them, good-by ! ” 

Leon actually jumped to his feet, picked up his 
hat, and made a movement as if to start. 

“ What are we to do with these tyrants ? ” said 
Amelia, despairingly, to me. 

“ Why, if we can’t be permitted to love our ene- 
mies, and bless them that curse us, we will fall to, 
like the rest of the world, and berate them soundly! ” 
I answered. 

Paul and Leon seemed determined to enjoy them- 
selves at any one’s expense that day, and both of 
them indulged in a good, long laugh at my reply, 
and Amelia’s effort to resist their malicious triumph. 

'' If you insist on.hearing the recital of that episode 
in my life that I would rather forget, you must be 
very grave while I recall the incidents,” said Amelia. 

Paul is right, Amelia,” said Leon. “ You should 


STRIFE. 


296 

share with us all uncomfortable as well as pleasant 
remembrances ; and it will lessen the pain of the 
one and increase your pleasure in the other ! ” 

With this encouragement, Amelia began: 

Paul, you remember how often you came to our 
private school entertainments in the convent, with 
the Count and Countess Darree, and a number of 
their fashionable friends ; and how, when you and 
the count joined me, and sometimes introduced me 
to your friends, the countess laughed, displayed her 
pretty teeth, and exhibited her most fascinating 
manners in her amiable recognition of your conde- 
scension ! ” 

“Yes,” Paul answered, dryly; “I remember it 
well. And her smile was not as contagious as her 
ladyship imagined on those occasions.” 

“ When I met her alone, she never recognized me; 
and once, when the count bowed from the carriage, 
on the Corso, she was so annoyed that a friend who 
was with them should witness the recognition of a 
* person without a title,’ that she impertinently asked, 
* ‘Who 's your friend?' loud enough for me to over- 
hear it. When the Count de I’Etoile sent his mes- 
sage about the gypsy’s report of my origin, the 
Countess Darree, to be on the safe side in the event 
of its proving true, came every day alone to my 
rooms and played the agreeable, but never had the 
courage or generosity to invite me to her villa, where 
my mind might have been relieved of its burden of 
inexpressible anxiety and apprehension. One day 
(I am addressing Leon now; you and Minnette know 


STRIFE. 


297 


the circumstance, Paul,) I was informed by the 
mother superior that several artists from Vienna 
were to visit the Academy of Art on the Pincian, 
and it would be a great advantage to have their opin- 
ion of my pose and Nita’s for the Annunciata — 
Paul’s painting for the altar. I had never visited 
the school; but, to oblige Paul, I went, with the un- 
derstanding that we were to meet only the three 
artists and the Count Darr^e. This was after the 
gypsy’s report had been declared false. Entering 
the academy by a private hall leading to the plat- 
form where the classes of models pose for the stu- 
dents, we found the curtain closed, as I had been 
promised. The artists. Count Darree, and Paul were 
there, and Nita and I placed ourselves for criticism, 
when suddenly the screen was cleared away, and 
the president of the college, all the students, a 
group of visitors. Countess Darree with them, stared 
at our dismayed party. Of course I immediately 
left my stand, and turned to leave by the door I 
came in. 

“ ‘ Resume your pose,’ the president called out, ' if* 
you wish to remain in our classes.’ 

The Count Darree and Paul instantly turned to 
him and explained the mistake, and I left the hall, 
meeting the president’s unconcerned stare and un- 
gentlemanly silence, after an unintentional insult, 
with one of disdain; and as I reached the door a low 
laugh of her ladyship was silenced by my look of 
unfeigned surprise I 

“ She actually reddened in the face, and I firmly 


298 


STRIFE. 


believe it was the only time she ever blushed for 
herself. 

“ When there were rumors again of my relationship 
to Paul, that the countess feared were true, she urged 
and entreated me to come to her villa, promising I 
need not meet any one there ! I simply refused the 
invitation, saying I would prefer not to risk incon- 
veniencing her ladyship by being accidentally dis- 
covered at her house. She took that charge of 
cowardice in silent humiliation. She could not dis- 
prove it, or redeem it by any noble repentance. She 
had not the moral courage. Nita, my foster-sister, 
never had a good disposition, but she was honest, 
and sensitive of her reputation for integrity. The 
countess enticed her to come to her villa on different 
pretences, and gained from her, by bribes artfully 
given as mere tokens of gratitude for little favors, 
all the information she wished about Lavinia and 
myself And when Mademoiselle Beaumont came 
to Rome, it was with great difficulty we avoided 
Nita’s close espionage on behalf of the countess. 
♦The poor girl was badly rewarded for her pains. 
And what I relate now, Paul, will show you the 
deepest shade in the countess’s character, that, if you 
had permitted, I think I would rather have passed 
over; but it is the insight that Minnette has of the 
unwomanly soulless selfishness, that imbittered her 
expression when you pressed the question of friend- 
ship, that we had discussed on that very morning! 
The countess had a set of pearl jewelry that the 
count gave her, and some loose pearls to match. 


STRIFE. 


299 


One day she remarked to Nita, ‘ I am going to ex- 
change these loose pearls for a set of earrings, and 
if I lose any pearls out of my necklace or bracelets, 
I will have imitation instead. It is impossible to 
match them with real.’ Shortly after making that 
remark, which the countess evidently forgot, a young 
lady who visited the count, a relative of his family, was 
staying with them at the villa. Her mind was more 
than a match for the countess’s manners in attract- 
ing and holding the attention of their guests, and 
the countess became violently jealous of the ullsus- 
pecting girl. One evening the countess came home 
and described some fancy ornament for the hair that 
she wished to purchase. It was expensive, and her 
economical husband refused to purchase it. 

‘ Why not exchange your pearls for it? ’ asked her 
friend, seeing the disappointment of the countess, 
and suggesting a way to accomplish the object. The 
answer was an indifferent one, and nothing further 
was said about the ornament. 

“ One day, a week afterward, the countess said to 
the count, ‘ I am afraid I have lost my loose pearls, 
and if I have, you must replace them. They are 
not where I usually keep them.’ Nita was in the 
countess’s room at the time, and when she followed 
the count out into the hall, Nita told the young lady 
friend of the count that possibly the countess had 
misplaced the pearls in taking them out to learn their 
value, as she had remarked she intended to do. 
When the countess re-entered the room the friend 
made Nita’s suggestion to her. She looked per- 


300 


STRIFE. 


fectly confounded for an instant, and then began 
confusedly to search for the pearls, and make re- 
marks that caused the friend considerable discom- 
fort. Finally, she related the affair over so often and 
in such ambiguous style, that each repetition threw 
more suspicion on the relative of the count. At last, 
feeling painfully conscious of her embarrassing posi- 
tion, the young girl insisted on visiting a clairvoy- 
ante. 

She declared the pearls were not lost at all ! The 
countess then interrupted the seance, and the ques- 
tion remained doubtful to every one who knew of it. 
The countess had no delicacy in her treatment of the 
friend, and even pretended to guard her keys where 
the friend was likely to be alone in her absence from 
home. Nita, pitying the distress of the friend of 
the count, went to a fabrique where she knew the 
countess dealt, and ascertained that she had sold 
the pearls to the dealer, purchased the head-orna- 
ment, and several things that she presented to some 
of the very people who believed her insinuations of 
theft ! 

“So even Nita disdained the continuance of the 
countess’s favor ; and when she learned that I was 
to be taken to the villa that night, she suspected 
the countess’s intention to aid in bringing her 
mother, Lavinia, to trial, and gave her notice in 
time for us both to escape from Rome.’’ 

“ Is that all? ” asked Leon, as Amelia concluded 
her recital, and quietly resumed some fancy paper- 
work that she had prudently suspended, as it re- 


STRIFE. 


301 


quired very accurate cutting, and her scissors were 
not under as good control in her tremulous hands as 
her tongue was, from severe practice, under strong 
excitement. 

“ I wish it were less, or forgotten,” Amelia an- 
swered, with a sigh half suppressed. 

“Well, my love,” said Leon, “pardon me if I 
indulge in one mental ejaculation^ that, expressed, 
would not be mistaken for ‘ a soft rebuke in bless- 
ings ended,’ by the Countess Darree. And let me 
commend you for your careful avoidance of adjec- 
tives in your evidence of the meanest act of which I 
ever knew a human being to be guilty.” 

“ If ever I commit a deed that I wish to have 
judged favorably,” said Paul, “ I hope sister will 
not be called to the witness stand. Her naked 
truth is more to be feared than Lord Chesterfield’s 
vocabulary of ‘ attributives^ I understand, now, how 
Minnette so completely realized the position of Count 
Darree’s friend.” 

Then Paul related my trouble about the opal ring 
when the gypsy discovered it on my finger, before I 
knew that Lavinia had placed it there in exchange 
for my own. 

Amelia had never been told of this painful embar- 
rassment that I had endured, and she was so excited 
when Paul related it with all the coloring of his 
charmed imagination, as he remembered the roman- 
tic midnight adventure, that it required all the art we 
could employ to chase away the painful impression 
26 


302 


STRIFE. 


it gave Amelia of my suffering for my mediation, 
then pure friendly. 

After ridiculing Paul’s glowing account of the af- 
fair, and insisting that it was dreadfully exaggerated, 
I remarked, “ You see, Paul, the uncomfortable effect 
of remembering the sins of our persecutors. Here- 
after I shall cherish the love of the beatitudes, and 
avoid those maledictions proverbial for their home 
predilections 

My raillery forced a smile into Amelia’s tearful 
face, and, seeing something that attracted my notice 
elsewhere, I deserted the bower. 

All the time of the conversation just related, old 
Lavinia sat under a tree near enough to hear our 
voices ; and I judged, by her attitude of thoughtful 
attention, that our words were distinctly understood. 
I had occupied many hours, that might otherwise 
have proved tedious, in teaching Lavinia German, 
and her patience and intelligence made the task a 
pleasant one. 

The roots, herbs, earth, and animals she had been 
preparing ever since our arrival at the hermitage, for 
her miraculous mixture, were now seething in one 
vessel, a porcelain pot shaped like a crucible, and 
resting on a tripod, under which a steady fire was 
kept up of charred coals, the flames smothered with 
ashes of leaves. 

After I had given my ultimatum on the subject 
of backbiting to my three ungrateful auditors — who 
declared I had infused the most venom into the dis- 


STRIFE. 303 

course at the very beginning!” I left them, and went 
to old Lavinia. * 

One end of her head-kerchief was loose and flutter- 
ing in the breeze, and I tucked it in for her, saying, 
“ Mother Lavinia, that sister and brother and hus- 
band are tiresome ; have you room on your log for 
me ? ” 

Spreading her dress over the leaves on the ground, 
she replied, “That will be more comfortable, child : 
sit down and tell me how you like the prospect of 
our journey to Venice.” 

“ I am afraid you are not inclined to leave the 
hermitage at all,” I replied, half laughing at the tone 
of regret with which she mentioned our proposed 
departure. 

“Ah, this home has always been a peaceful re- 
treat for me, from cares and anxieties that press 
on one where people live in crowds,” she replied. 
“When Mademoiselle Beaumont and the signora 
Amelia were here alone, they were both more happy, 
they said, than they ever were in the great cities. I 
was almost foolish enough to think the signora had 
better stay with that deceitful woman you have been 
talking about; just as if she could be happy in a 
palace with a treacherous hostess. But I gave her 
her choice that night, and she answered with a sen- 
tence she had translated in the morning: ' I zvoiild 
rather come to shame before the world than let myself 
be assisted by a Judas at a judgment-bar ! ' ” 

“ Amelia is grand in that kind of simple power,” I 
replied; “her heart is so noble and true that she has 


304 


STRIFE. 


only to obey its instinctive warning, and feel secure 
of her just conclusion ! ” 

“She was good to Nita, and always gentle to me, 
and I would go with her anywhere in the wide 
world, without fear of her neglecting me.” 

I was accustomed to hear Lavinia crone over her 
favorite, and felt a greater satisfaction in listening to 
it than I could well explain. It gave me an assu- 
rance that all humanity was not base, and that the 
divine spark was not extinct while the spirit-light of 
pure love could shine out of those aged eyes as it re- 
turned Amelia’s kindly smiles, in spite of the bereaved 
heart, that had not even the consolation of mourning, 
like Rachel or Mizpah, for the two not dead, but 
wrapped in the black veil of superstition, that stifles 
all the better yearnings of human affection. 

“ How shall you like to live in two homes always, 
mother Lavinia ? ” I asked ; “ six months at Lor- 
raine, and six months at Immergrlin.” 

“ I have no hope of any such good fortune after 
you young folks get away from the good influence 
of the Abruzzi,” she replied. “Some might think 
two homes sufficient, but I expect my old bones 
will be found bleaching on an Eastern desert, or 
drifted on the beach of a West India island.” 

“ Oh, oh ! ” I exclaimed laughing, and drew the 
attention of the three tormentors from whom I 
thought I had escaped, to our tree, and they came 
in spite of the “ slight ” they accused me of in leaving 
them. 

“ Mother Lavinia, I verily believe^ her ladyship 


STRIFE. 


305 


has some design on you, and I mean to put a re- 
straint on my own generosity. Till now I have 
shared your attention with her equally, but she is 
such an absorbent that I shall be entirely excluded 
after a while, and Nannine broken-hearted ! ” said 
Amelia, throwing herself on the leaves and laying 
her head in Lavinia’s lap. Before her speech was 
ended she had been caressed by the brown bony 
hand, and her brow smoothed with touches too fond 
to be doubted. 

“ Mother Lavinia, look ! there is a bird right over 
your crucible. See, he is actually intoxicated, just 
from the steam ! ” Leon cried, excitedly. 

Our eyes had scarcely found the poor little thing 
clinging to a branch that was suspended over the 
vessel, when he fell dead on the ground, almost in 
the fire ! 

“Why, what a poisonous decoction that must 
be ! “ Paul exclaimed, “ when the fumes will kill an 
animal at that distance.” 

“ I am not surprised,” I answered, shuddering at 
my recollection of the taste I had had of it at Sor- 
rento. “ What are the poisonous ingredients in it ? ” 
I asked. 

“Just what you yourself recognized,” said old 
Lavinia. “ The poison of vipers ! ” 

She took up the bird, gloomily regarded it, and 
then, taking a sharp stick, she made a hole in the 
ground, buried the bird, and pressed the mould over 
it with her feet. 

“ It was a dreadful dose,” I said, half to myself. 

26 * V 


STRIFE. 


306 

“ I felt at first as if I had taken some metallic fluid 
into my veins, that was gradually expanding and 
threatening to burst them ; then fire and electricity 
seemed to course through my whole system ; and 
when my feet touched the ground, they were numb, 
as when they have been heated suddenly, after being 
very cold.” 

“ If I had dared to give it to your sister, it might 
have saved her; but I was not sure of her strength 
to resist the poison, as I was of you,” said Lavinia. 

And to yield to it would be death in less than an 
hour.” 

What a combination of fire and snow you are, 
sister!” said Leon. The doctor has often said,” 
he continued, addressing old Lavinia, “ that she 
resists doses strong enough to prostrate a strong 
man ; but she is so sympathetic in her nature, that 
by contagion she will take the slightest fever from 
another person.” 

“ I saw that when I gave her the theriaca, or she 
would have taken the fever from her sister. Before 
the fever has poisoned the blood, this mixture is an 
antidote ; afterward, only fuel to the flame,” said 
old Lavinia. 

This is the same formation of mithridate that 
was made by Andromachus, physician to Nero,” said 
Amelia ; “ and there are about twenty-five times as 
many ingredients as there need be to make it just as 
efficacious. But I suppose if one grain of strained 
opium or a speck of the dried vipers should be 
omitted, mother Lavinia would scorn to use it.” 


STRIFE. 307 

‘‘ There you are mistaken, signora, for I have kept 
an ounce of opium out this time.” 

“Where is it?” asked Amelia. “ Ermitano is 
suffering with that tooth again, this afternoon ; and 
it is only from the cold settling there, that he had 
in his face yesterday. Ginger and opium, made into 
a plaster, will drive the pain, cold, and soreness all 
away.” 

“ You will find the bottle in my room, signora, 
and a roll of linen,” said old Lavinia, as Amelia 
turned toward the hermitage, but paused as Paul 
remarked : 

“ Leon, suppose we ride over to the colliery, and 
give directions for those men who are to guard us 
to the coast. These people are so forgetful and in- 
different, that we cannot be too particular in making 
them understand we must start positively to-morrow 
evening.” 

“ Very well,” answered Leon. “ I will go ; it is 
just the day for an excursion.” 

“ Minnette, would you like to go ?” asked Paul. 

“No, signore,” said old Lavinia, shaking her head. 
“ The signora and the Signora Amelia will do bet- 
ter to stay at the hermitage ; and I think yourself 
and the signore would do as well to avoid the fa- 
tigue, as we have a tedious journey enough before 
us.” 

A look of astonishment passed quickly over Paul’s 
countenance, that was succeeded by one of perplex- 
ity, as he looked inquiringly at old Lavinia’s face. 
But he might as well have tried to read the riddle 


3o8 


STRIFE. 


in the face of the Sphynx, as in the impassive coun- 
tenance of that wary old woman, when she chose 
to evade scrutiny. There was something wrong; 
that was evident. Paul, Leon, and myself felt it, and 
not one of us could have told how old Lavinia had 
given the impression ! It was very natural to object 
to having Amelia or myself undertake a tedious ride 
on rough ponies through the forest, when we were 
to begin a journey of several days on horseback the 
next evening. But the advice to Paul and Leon, 
though seemingly reasonable also, were a little gra- 
tuitous for old Lavinia’s usual circumspect care to 
avoid even the appearance of disregarding the self- 
importance of these young husbands. 

“Have any news been received from Rome since 
last Thursday ? “ asked Paul, assuming an air of sud- 
den curiosity. 

“ None that I have heard of, signore ; but you will 
learn at the colliery if there have ! “ answered old 
Lavinia, as coolly. 

“ So we will. Well, Leon, if fatigue is the only 
plea for our remaining, we can risk that ! “ 

This remark succeeded no better than the direct 
question to draw any admission from Lavinia ; and, 
after a few moments’ preparation, the two indefa- 
tigable voyagers started on their really useless 
errand. 

“ You will return before evening? “ Amelia asked. 

“ Oh, yes ; and you might meet us, if you choose. 
About sunset will be the time to start from here for 
a mile’s ride,” answered Paul. 


STRIFE. 


309 


The adieus were exchanged, and away they went. 

Watching my opportunity when Amelia came 
from Ermitano’s apartments, “ Now, Amelia,” I said, 
“see if you can get any news out of mother Lavinia. 
She has some, I am certain.” 

“Very well; let me try her alone, and I promise 
you shall know, if you are right,” answered Amelia. 

“ Certainly,” I replied ; “ and as I am rather fa- 
tigued, I will rest awhile. You can join me when 
you are ready.” 

“ Will you take this bottle to Lavinia’s room on 
the way ? ” Amelia asked, turning back again when 
she had gone but a few steps. 

Looking at the vial as she gave it to me, I saw, 
instead of the black fluid opium I supposed was in 
it, a curious colored mixture that I had never seen 
before. 

“ What is this ? ” I asked. 

“ Opium, I suppose,” Amelia replied. “ But, as 
Ermitano’s face was better, or else, like all men, his 
pain disappeared at the mere sight of the remedy, 
I did not open the vial.” 

“ Look what a strange color it is ; and I never 
saw opium so pasty as the consistency of this.” 

“You had not better take out the stopper. Per- 
haps I have made a mistake; and if we cross 
mother Lavinia by meddling with her mysterious 
pharmacy, farewell to all hope of any news we may 
get!’^ 

I was more anxious for news than curious as to 
the contents of the vial, so I took Amelia’s advice. 


310 


STRIFE. 


Falling into a revery on the way up to my room, 
I forgot to leave the vial in Lavinia’s room, and not 
wishing to go back again, I placed it on my own 
table and taking my Shelley, that Dr. Leon had 
been induced to leave with me, I threw myself on a 
lounge, and was soon lost to all sense of impatience 
in the absorbing interest of “ the Cenci.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 


SUSPENSE. 


M INNETTE!” 

The voice was so strange to my ear that I 
thought my eyes must be deceiving me when I saw 
Amelia standing beside me. But her countenance 
was even more strange than her voice. It expressed 
the hopeless terror of a craven heart, that, facing an 
enemy, is palsied by its own lack of courage, and, 
vanquished by its weak fears, dares not strike for 
life. 


“ Minnette, I am almost beside myself with dis- 
tracting doubts ! ” she said, and her wild look con- 
firmed her words. 

''Doubts I of whom, or what ? ” I asked. 

“ Minnette, I do believe you are stronger than I, 
after all, in a great crisis. Be as brave and calm as 
you possibly can now, for I am helpless, and must 
depend on you! ” 

“Amelia, I can be reasonable; but if you continue 
to increase my fears without telling me what I have 
to encounter, you cannot expect superhuman cour- 
age.” 

“ Well, be patient with me ; the trouble may exist 

3 ” 


312 


STRIFE. 


in my imagination only, but it has taken a fierce hold 
on me.” 

This acknowledgment, that no accident, invasion, 
or anything positively known, had happened to Leon, 
Paul, or any one belonging to us, reassured me, and 
rising from the lounge, I insisted on Amelia’s sitting 
quietly till she had told me what distressed her so 
unaccountably. 

I was so fearful that mother Lavinia would see 
my agitation, and I would not have Paul know my 
feelings for the world ! ” she said, despairingly. 

“ Amelia, you must be ill ; perhaps you have some 
fever from the headache you complained of to-day,” 
I said, really believing that nothing else could cause 
her to talk so incoherently. 

“ Oh, I am heart-sick ! ” she said, “ and do not 
know how to tell you what I fear. Promise me that 
it shall never pass your lips, .whether or not it is 
true, unless I give you leave to speak ! ” 

“A promise of silence might make me as helpless 
as yourself in the matter; you can depend on me 
for maintaining secrecy, if it is better. You have 
that promise ; only tell me at once, Amelia, for I am 
getting very nervous at this hesitation on your part. 
It is something concerning Leon ; he is the only one 
you have not mentioned in your allusions yet.” 

'‘You remember he said the Countess Darree had 
invited him to her villa? ” 

“Yes, certainly; but you could not — ” ' 

“ Oh, let me tell you ! you cannot conjecture my 
meaning. I have just learned from Ermitano that 


STRIFE. 


313 


the young officer who stopped here on the way to 
Naples was a friend of the Countess Darree. He 
told Ermitano that the countess had become a secret 
member of the Liberalists ; and since their cause 
was lost in Rome, she has joined a party who are 
enlisting the young noblemen of every nation, wher- 
ever they meet them, and can work on their sympa- 
thies, to join Garibaldi, who is gathering forces near 
Tivoli, and is determined to fight in open coun- 
try. Ermitano evaded the officer’s questions about 
Paul and Leon, and gave him so little encourage- 
ment to remain at the hermitage, telling him he 
would find better accommodation to spare at the 
border, that the officer went off before we break- 
fasted this morning. 

“ When I told Ermitano, a few minutes ago, that 
Paul and Leon had gone over there, he looked 
alarmed at once, and said, ‘ How unfortunate ! 
There will be a meeting and illumination in the for- 
est to-night, for the express purpose of inducing the 
young men to adopt the Italian cause, and the officer 
hinted that Garibaldi himself might be there ! ’ ” 

“ My dream ! my dream ! ” I exclaimed. 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ Where is the countess now ? ” I asked, dreading 
the answer that I saw in my dream all pictured 
clearly before me again — the Mediterranean, the 
vessel, the ibrtress with its cloud canopy, and Leon s 
bright eyes looking with the fire of enthusiasm to- 
ward the strife, while Amelia passively waited his 

return to her ! 

27 


STRIFE. 


3H 


“ They have a vessel off Naples, and the countess 
and her party are waiting to carry the officers en- 
listed around the Cape to join a force on the eastern 
coast.” 

“Amelia, we must go immediately, and join Leon 
and Pai^l.” 

“ We cannot ; it will be night by the time we ar- 
rive at the border, if they really go all the way, and 
we may miss them if they should start before we 
reach the colliery.” 

“ If you will not go, I will persuade Lavinia to 
accompany me without you. I must reach Leon ; 
for I have a presentiment that if I do not, some harm 
will come to him through the deceit of the Countess- 
Darree. The officer was sent here, or — ” The 
thought that came into my head was too extrava- 
gant to utter ; I banished it as preposterous ; and 
finding my appeal had effected its purpose with 
Amelia, I hastily prepared for our ride, while Amelia 
summoned old Lavinia to prepare to accompany us. 

I could understand the hesitation Amelia felt in 
admitting her fears of the Countess Darree’s power 
to influence Leon against his own will or the strength 
even of his affection for her, in a cause that had in- 
terested every feeling of his patriotic heart. The 
countess was discerning enough to comprehend 
Leon’s noble love of independence, and had several 
times induced him to express his opinion on the 
Italian question, although she knew that in doing so 
my father was distressed by it and her husband se- 
riously annoyed. 


STRIFE. 


315 


One time she remarked in my hearing: “Mon- 
sieur de Stalberg, you have not yet been presented 
to His Holiness ; surely all Protestants must ac- 
knowledge that the blessing of the Holy Father can 
be efficacious when the very fact of their opposition 
to his temporal advancement proves the sincerity 
and unselfish motive of His Holiness in bestowing 
the papal benediction ! ” 

“ My dear countess/’ Leon answered, “ the only 
blessing I should value especially from a Roman 
Pontiff, is the one he cannot consistently give — a 
patriot's blessing. And a country struggling for its 
freedom has a universal claim on youth and courage 
for opposition to the arch-enemy to all liberty, even 
that of conscience.” 

The countess saw by my smile that I had over- 
heard the remarks, and, quickly charging on me 
the whole battery of malicious intentions, she said, 
“ And Mademoiselle Minnette, your bright smile 
might induce the Holy Father to forget you were a 
little heretic, and betray him into a blessing with 
special indulgence ! ” 

The shaft was well selected and beautifully aimed, 
but its poison met an unexpected antidote in my 
own acrid drop of hatred for the machinations of a 
deceitful woman, as my instinct taught me the Count- 
ess Darree was. 

“ Madame,” I replied, “ I would spare Pius Ninth, 
or any other papist, the pain of penance for a false- 
hood of which he must be guilty every time he 
blesses with his lips a ^ heretic; while in his heart he 


STRIFE. 


316 

reserves the malediction ‘ on all heretics ’ that he must 
utter at the very next mass 1 ” 

I have not the ability to describe the look that 
answered this hasty speech; but after that skirmish, 
in which I did not feel worsted, the Countess Darree 
and myself had exchanged as few words as common 
civility would permit. 

Her motive in joining the Liberalists now, I could 
easily comprehend. Count Darree’s death at the 
hands of his own party threw a shade over the pop- 
ularity of his name that could not be removed, for 
the lack of sufficient proof of his entire devotion to 
the papal cause ; and the countess, being essentially 
an intriguante, had, as soon as possible, formed a 
clique of Roman noblemen and women who, like 
herself, had some personal wrong to avenge ; and 
every energy, I well knew, would be exerted to en- 
gage the services of men like Leon and Paul. I 
was convinced that in some way the Countess Dar- 
ree had learned our habitation, and sent the officer 
Lavinia had mentioned to bring her information of us. 

While I was getting ready to start on our uncer- 
tain expedition, swallowing with difficulty the broth 
Lavinia had ordered Amelia and myself to take, “ or 
remain at home, as it would be nonsense for two 
women, faint with hunger, to attend a soldier’s meet- 
ing,” I turned over in my mind all these agreeable 
recollections and suggestions, and came to the con- 
clusion that to make old Lavinia of any use in 
the matter, there was but one way — to make a 
clean breast of the whole affair, and trust her shrewd 


STRIFE. 


317 


head and faithful heart to comprehend and sacredly 
guard my confidence. 

“ Amelia,” I said, urging her consent to my plan, 
“ Lavinia is a good general ; but is it fair to ask her 
assistance, and not give her the advantage we have 
of viewing the enemy’s ground, as well as our own ? 
Besides,” I continued, “I more than half suspect she 
is already possessed of information that equals our 
own in importance.” 

“ If she has,” Amelia replied, “ I could not detect 
it, nor would she give me the slightest encourage- 
ment to talk about the present aspect of the Italian 
cause.” 

“ She saw your own reserve, and felt hurt by it,” I 
answered ; and while I am as averse as you can be 
to anything like an indelicate disclosure of Leon’s 
affairs to a third person, I think we should consider 
it perfectly right and justifiable to commit our anxi- 
ety to the keeping of one who has been faithful to 
both of us through a trial that few mothers could 
have borne so bravely.” 

“ You are right, Minnette; do as you please, and 
I will ’abide by your action. Thank God, I am not 
left to my own weak fears in this exigency. I never 
felt so keenly the pain of threatening sorrow, and yet 
so helpless to avert it.” 

“That is not like your courage, sister,” I said, kiss- 
ing her cheek, wet with tears that she could not re- 
press. “ Finish this broth,” and I held the bowl to 
her lips, forcing her to take it; “and now I will 
27 * . 


STRIFE. 


3*8 

return this vial to Lavinia’s room, and see if she is 
ready to start.” 

Lavinia was not in her room, and, thinking she 
had gone down to meet us at the door, I hastily 
placed the vial on her table without seeing what I 
did, and, striking against another one, upset it. The 
stopper fell out, and I noticed the odor of ammonia 
and ether, though it had the same coloring as the 
contents of the vial I returned. As I replaced the 
stopper and stood the vial against the wall, Amelia 
came into the room, and I told her what I had done. 
She could not help smiling at my consternation, 
and said, “ Lavinia would construe that accident into 
some omen that would only make her more uneasy ; 
so we may as well go down and meet her without 
mentioning it.” 

And on that careless conclusion hung a decree of 
fate ! 


t 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

RETRIBUTION. 

B efore we reached the colliery, a messenger 
from Paul met us with a note hastily pencilled 
to myself, requesting me to come with Amelia and 
mother Lavinia to the border meeting. The officer 
who was at the hermitage)” it read, “ seems to be 
making a strong impression on Leon. He is wildly 
enthusiastic about the forming of the new Garibal- 
dian legion, and I fear the influence of this new 
acquaintance, who has a remarkably pleasing ad- 
dress. Indeed, he almost persuades me to believe 
in the success of the undertaking. Come with 
Amelia; I feel powerless to combat in any other 
way the plausible arguments of the officer, who has 
induced Leon to attend the meeting to-night in 
spite of my protest.” 

“ That is just what I expected,” Lavinia quietly 
remarked ; and I wish now that I had told you, so 
you could have persuaded them not to go. But I 
dislike to be always borrowing trouble.” 

After a half-hour’s rest and refreshment at the col- 
liery, we started for the assemblage of mountaineers, 
besides refugees, recruits, and bandits, who were 
certain to be there, escorted by a company of thirty 

319 


320 


STRIFE. 


trained men from the colliery. The sunset, with 
its parting glory, the moonlight silvering every 
streamlet, and throwing its mysterious spirit-light 
over the shadowy forest as we silently rode through 
it, and as we came upon the settlement the sudden 
blaze of a hundred fires, the flames leaping in triumph 
to the very skies, illuminating every secret nook of 
the settlement, magnifying the forest-trees that bor- 
dered the clearing like four gigantic hedges of oak, 
and bringing out the expression of every fiendish 
passion that the Tempter can paint on the human 
countenance in that great crowd — that restless, 
shouting, defiant mass of humanity — I remember 
it all ! 

On one group alone my eyes were riveted. In 
the very centre of a piazza, around which the huts 
of the settlement were built in the form of a hollow 
square, a platform had been erected, and on it stood 
two officers in the crimson cloaks and'plumes of the 
Garibaldian uniform. 

Standing, almost leaning against the platform, was 
another officer, younger and with a fair face, though 
the features were strongly marked. The latter list- 
ened critically to every word uttered by the two on 
the stand, who addressed the crowd alternately, and 
at every pause turned on Leon and Paul, who were 
both intensely interested, a look as of melancholy 
reproach for withholding the aid that might convert 
this whole concourse with one electrical stroke of 
conviction, if they would but stand together, and 
with their youthful, animated countenances proclaim 


STRIFE. 


321 


their determination to lead whoever might follow ! 
Paul did not expect us till an hour later. Lavinia 
tried in vain to penetrate that living wall of hu- 
manity, and reach the side of the stand, and the 
flaring lights, shifting shadows, surging waves of 
heads, hands, and banners, the deafening shouts of 
applause when daring acts of heroes in exile were 
recounted, made our eflbrts to attract the notice of 
Paul and Leon utterly useless. 

Appeal followed appeal, till hundreds of eager list- 
eners were enrolled ; and yet the demand continued 
for the sacrifice. No deceitful promises were held 
out as inducements to these hard-headed, bold- 
hearted men — brigands and mountaineers. They 
would have been hurled back into the teeth of the 
already vanquished officers. But with the awful 
power of those death-dealing harpies near the rocks 
of the Syrens, those two persistent, determined en- 
thusiasts repeated the warning of cold and hunger, 
thirst and weariness, imprisonment and death in the 
cause of liberty, promising as the only reward, “ a 
lonely grave with a patriot’s deathless fame ! ” 

I found my senses enthralled into a passive sub- 
mission to the continually increasing power of this 
magnetic influence. My thoughts wandered back 
to Sicily : my father was smiling at Leon’s impulsive 
declaration of attachment to Paul ; and then, pleased 
with Paul’s ready response, he laid his hand on their 
clasped hands and said : Count, my boy has a 
wealth of affection to bestow, and an earnestness of 
purpose in his friendships ; may this bond, so pleas- 
V 


322 


STRIFE. 


antly formed, be the incitement to deeds and utter- 
ances in the cause of truth and right, whenever and 
wherever Providence may join your paths ! ” 

“ Lavinia, stop him, or I shall die ! ” Amelia 
moaned in my ears. I had been rapt in my own 
fancies, and as treacherously had unconsciousness 
of what was passing stolen over me, as the sleep 
that blinded the disciples to the Master’s agony 
even while the hour was at hand ! 

One glance at the group : it had changed ! An- 
tonio was there, assisting the officer — the fair one — 
to separate Paul and Leon. Paul persuaded, Leon 
tried to disengage his hold ; he was wild with ex- 
citement. 

Lavinia’s renewed efforts to force her way through 
the crowd, again seemed unavailing, when suddenly 
the officer who had. exercised such control over my 
brother caught sight of Lavinia, and from her face 
glanced at Amelia’s, and then at my own. 

“ My God! look at that smile I ” 

Lavinia said it : then strength came with her pas- 
sion of anger that enabled her literally to hew a 
path through that mass of men, pressing and crowd- 
ing in toward the scene of the struggle. Amelia 
fell senseless. I permitted them to carry her away 
to a hut, and stood chained to the spot, where I could 
see every gesture, every movement of the wrestlers 
for a point on which would turn or rest the question 
of partial defeat or complete triumph in this hard- 
fought battle for recruits. 

Lavinia reached the stand, caught Antonio by the 


STRIFE. 


323 


wrist fiercely, and received a blow that he hurled at 
her without seeing who had grasped him. Paul, not 
knowing Antonio in his blinding rage at seeing 
mother Lavinia so brutally struck, caught his 
throat, when suddenly a shot was fired, then an- 
other, and Leon and the officer whose smile had so 
offended Lavinia fell at the feet of the horrified men, 
who drew back appalled at the termination of the 
conflict. 

Let me go through — it is my brother!” I re- 
peated, each time they closed around me, and I 
soon stood beside Lavinia. Leon was dead. The 
ball entered his brain, and he could not have suf- 
fered a moment’s pain. Paul was moaning and 
weeping in an agony of grief that could not find any 
other expression. Lavinia was speechless. Anto- 
nio told some one to take me away. I answered : 
“ Be silent : who is this sufferer ? Why don’t you 
do something for him ? Lavinia, look, the officer 
breathes and moves : can’t you help him ? ” 

They took Leon away; Paul went with them. 
Lavinia took a vial from her pocket, and poured 
some of the mixture from it into the officer’s mouth; 
then she and Antonio assisted some one to carry the 
sufferer to a hut. 

“ Leave Antonio with him, and come with me to 
Amelia,” I said, when he was comfortably placed on 
a bed. 

We were at the door, just leaving the hut, when 
Antonio called Lavinia to come back. The officer 


324 


STRIFE. 


was writhing in awful convulsions, foaming at the 
mouth, and screaming horribly. 

Lavinia put her hand to her head, as she looked 
in dismay at the awful spectacle of suffering before 
her; then hastily taking the vial from her pocket, 
she read and re-read the fearful truth it told. 

“ I have poisoned her ! ” she exclaimed. 

Antonio stood motionless, unable even to speak, 
till suddenly the writhing form stiffened in death, 
and then the traitor found utterance for his wrath 
and disappointment, 

“You knew, then, it was the Countess Darree,” 
he hissed in old Lavinia’s ear, “ and you have 
poisoned her ! ” 

“ Antonio,” old Lavinia replied, “ I would that 
your soul was clear as mine is from the charge of 
murder. Retribution comes to all : ‘ Vengeance is 
mine, I will repay,' saith the Lord.” 

The first shock, Leon’s fall, had partially paralyzed 
my brain, but now came a revulsion, and I rushed 
to the door, calling for Paul. 

That is all I remember of that day. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

IMMERGRUN. 

T T mattered not to Minnette de Stalberg that the 
A old home had received her under its hospitable 
roof once more. Mahren Castle had not changed 
in the six years of her absence from Immergrlin. 
But both were alike strange to her. Even the 
changes at Immergrlin were unnoticed. A large 
stone building stood beside the little chapel, once 
the only Moravian house of worship in the Valley ; 
but now the great school that Mademoiselle Beau- 
mont had erected, as Minnette’s father, the Baron 
de Stalberg, had directed when they were in Sicily 
together, monopolized the chapel, for three hundred 
maidens, of all ages and ranks, were receiving their 
education under Mademoiselle Beaumont’s inspector- 
ship. A new church stood between Mahren Castle 
and Immergrlin, taking half of its ground from each 
estate. 

Robert Lentz and his pretty wife lived in the 
seminary, and were taking active part in the tuition 
and household duties of the establishment, as well 
as an ever-increasing interest in the growing con- 
gregation of Moravians in the Valley. Some of the 
older sisters in the congregation were often called 

28 325 


STRIFE. 


326 

Upon to tell “ the last new scholar ” about the day 
when Robert’s wife was received by the children in 
the chapel as the pastor’s bride. 

Her spring costume of white embroidered muslin 
from India, her white chip hat with a wreath of 
white violets, were described minutely. ^^And the 
first Sunday was communion Sunday ; and in place 
of Robert’s mother, his bride carried the salver of 
wafers for her husband to distribute to the commu- 
nicants, and ever after she was called ‘ the bride of 
the church ; ’ and no one could meet her pleasant 
smile and not be comforted ! ” The new scholar 
could well believe all the kind dame told her of 
Mrs. Lentz, “for, she would never, never forget the 
first night she lay down in one of the row of beds 
with its snowy curtains, and, feeling ‘just a little 
strange,’ began to cry. And how Mrs. Lentz came 
and said: ‘Oh, dear me; Mademoiselle Beaumont 
has gone to Mahren Castle, and here is a freshet 
threatening the seminary ! ’ And then she laughed, 
too, when the new scholar said : ‘ It was only her 
way of making herself at home ! And Mrs. Lentz 
s^aid beside her till she fell asleep.’ ” 

Minnette met the little girls and the older ones, 
and received their little tokens of respect, their smiles 
and bouquets, with like indifference. Mademoiselle 
Beaumont, trying every way to rouse the dormant 
faculties, one day showed her three medals, told her 
how “ three Waldensians once stood on a mountain 
that would soon shut out their valley in Bohemia 
from their sight forever ; and how they knelt and 


STRIFE. 


32; 


prayed that their persecutors might have their hard- 
ness of heart taken away, and permit the ' good seed ’ 
sown in the Valley to spring up and flourish when 
their children should ask what manner of faith their 
fathers professed. And then these three exiles made 
a covenant with the Lord, and vowed that the pure, 
simple truths of the Apostolic Church alone should 
dwell in their hearts.” 

These three medals were the symbols of that 
covenant. 

“And now,” said Mademoiselle, “in every land 
are smiling valleys where the children of those 
early fathers worship in their own way, and instruct 
thousands of children from the outside world in the 
teachings of the Word, as well as every useful and 
scientific art. The Moravian schools, colleges, and 
seminaries have no rivals in excellence, and here, at 
Immergrlin, our lists are filled out a whole year in 
advance.” 

Minnette listened sometimes, and sometimes in- 
terrupted this attempt to interest her. Once she 
said, “ Mademoiselle Beaumont is at Immergrlin.” 

“ I am Mademoiselle Beaumont,” was the vain 
answer. 

“ Mademoiselle Beaumont is not ill — she does n’t 
cough; and the medal she showed me was something 
that some one gave her, and no one but myself knew 
anything about it, and that was only a dream,” was 
the reply. 

Dr. Leon heard this useless conversation, and took 
Minnette away from Mademoiselle, who could no 


328 


STRIFE. 


longer repress her grief, and was seized with a long, 
exhausting spell of coughing. 

“ Doctor, I should like to go to Immergrlin; but 
our home at dear old Immergriin is very far away.” 

A little girl, only four years old, with long golden 
hair, was brought to Minnette by her nurse. This 
little one had appeared to Minnette in a lovely gar- 
den in an Eastern city, and she thought it was the 
Christ-child. 

“ Where are her wings ? ” she asked, looking curi- 
ously at the child. 

Amelia answered, God sent her to us, and she 
must not have wings, or she would fly away to 
heaven, and leave us.” 

“ Where is the Madonna ? ” was the next question. 

The little one answered for herself She clung to 
Amelia’s neck, and cried out with fear at the intense 
gaze of the invalid. Then Paul came, and every one 
else was forgotten. 

On this day at Immergriin the child was very 
happy. She had been listening to the singing of the 
scholars at a rehearsal for an entertainment in the 
school-chapel. 

She sat down with Minnette under a tree in “ the 
visitors’ grove,” and talked in her baby way of what 
she had seen, and then said, “To-night we will all 
hear them again ; and mamma says you will go, too.” 

“Nannine, I am tired;” Minnette complained. 
“Where is Paul?” 

Never far away, the faithful watcher came, and sent 
the child and her nurse away. 


STRIFE. 


329 


Old Lavinia brought a pillow, placed it in a ham- 
mock, and the wearied brain soon found rest in its 
own dream-world. 

The evening came at last to the impatient schol- 
ars. Their bright, happy faces were all beautiful with 
joyousness, as they walked two and two into the 
chapel. Every one wore white, and as many natu- 
ral flowers as they chose to wear in the hair, or as 
ornaments to any part of their dress, in garlands and 
bouquets. Fritz had been lavish with his choicest 
flowers in the green-house, and from Mahren came 
an abundant supply to decorate the chapel. - One 
little, dark-eyed Spanish beauty wore a wreath of 
fuchsias on her head, the crimson pendent flowers con- 
trasting richly with her black, glossy ringlets. Be- 
side her sat a fairy, with a pink-and-white baby-face, 
and large blue eyes, whose light was softened by 
the modest loveliness of the tiny lilies of the valley 
resting on her innocent brow. Another waxen face 
looked more fair under the wreath of pink rosebuds 
and white hyacinths. The most conspicuous one, 
and, I think, the most beautiful, a mistaken guardian 
had clothed with a black robe, but, as she entered the 
chapel, Amelia placed on her head a wreath of white 
violets and anemone. 

All these little children were in front of the older 
classes on the platform, and looked like the simple 
bordering to a rich flower-bed, where queenly roses, 
lilies, and rare flowers lifted their heads v/ith con- 
scious but innocent beauty. 

Music formed an important branch of education 
28*' 


330 


STRIFE. 


at the seminary, as in all Moravian schools, in what- 
ever land; and these young girls were better trained 
in oratorio and the masses than many professional 
singers. 

Every place in the chapel was occupied by a crowd 
of visitors invited from Dresden, many of them pa- 
rents and friends of the scholars. 

Mademoiselle Beaumont was present at the open- 
ing chorus, but the crowd and the heavy perfume of 
the flowers oppressed her, and she was taken out of ' 
the chapel. 

The scene, the music, the prattling child sitting 
beside her, clapping her little hands with delight 
when she recognized a favorite among the scholars 
engaged with some part of the entertainment — a 
recitation, song, or performance on harp, guitar, or 
pianoforte — pleased Minnette fora time, and then 
awakened perplexing memories, till at last it became 
irksome, and she, too, left the chapel with Paul. 

The entertainment was over. All had left the 
chapel, and the scholars were returning to the sem- 
inary, when the pastor stopped the older girls and 
requested them to follow him to the castle. 

Mademoiselle Beaumont was dying, he told them, 
and desired to hear their voices again. Silently, 
with pale faces, more angelic with their awe of death, 
these thirty young girls stood around the bed of 
the dying woman. Taking the hand of each in turn, 
she addressed a special farewell blessing to every 
one of her class. Then turning to Ethel, she said : 

Before they sing, bring Minnette to me; I feel 


STRIFE. 


331 


that my departure in some way will effect her per- 
fect restoration.” 

The Litany for the Dying had been read, the last 
sacrament administered, and the young voices were 
chanting a subdued but sweet melody of praise, be- 
fore the request could be granted. 

The chant ended, and all knelt to join in the final 
prayer, “ Our Father^' when Minnette entered with 
Ethel, whose pale features had suddenly brought 
to her recollection the night of Father Beaumont’s 
death, and induced her to go with her, after refusing 
all others’ persuasions. 

Mademoiselle Beaumont held out her hand ; her 
breath was faint and short, but she said, ” Minnette, 
I am going horne to my father; I shall soon 'fall 
asleep 

" Father Beaumont sleeps in the shadow of my 
mother’s monument.” 

And I will sleep there too, Minnette, and — ” 
The stifled sobs of some of the young girls, unable 
to control their grief, interrupted her. But Minnette 
gazed around at the saddened faces, kneeling forms, 
and the group of anxious friends at the bedside, 
and she suddenly understood the voice of sadness in 
those sobs, and the meaning of those tears ! 

Looking -eagerly into Mademoiselle Beaumont’s 
face, she exclaimed, ‘*You are ill, Mademoiselle: 
what can I do for you ? ” 

“Ask — my Heavenly Father — to — receive — my 
spirit — quickly ! ” 


STRIFE. 


332 

I fell on my knees; a cloud of loved forms floated 
before me. I saw each one smiling — mother, father, 
Leon and Leoni, and then I heard the well-known 
chant beside me : 

“ She is at rest in lasting bliss. 

Beholding Christ her SaviourB 

And I raised my bowed head, looked upon that 
dead face, the last of those who appeared in my 
vision, and the recollection and power to realize all 
came back with overwhelming force. In an agony of 
wretchedness I cried, “ Oh, I am weary — so weary, 
and indeed alone in my grief ! ” 

Madame Leon, recognized for the first time, held 
me close to her heart when Paul took me to her in 
the old library, till my own heart was eased with my 
sobs and tears. 

Again the morning dawned, and the mournful 
announcement of a soul’s departure from our midst 
was heard from the church tower; and in the Valley 
many of the old and young lifted up their voices 
and wept for the loss of their benefactress, before 
the inmates of either castle had thought of their 
rest. 


ADIEU. 


D ear reader, a sad history has been recited, 
with as much cheerfulness as possible, where 
clouds and sunshine so mingled, oftentimes, that it 
was difficult to distinguish which was really prevail- 
ing. My strife is ended. In warring against the 
limited knowledge that a wise Providence ordains 
for finite beings, I was opposing even the wisdom 
of those heathen philosophers — the familiars of the 
old library, in which I am now writing to you — I 
was WARRING WITH NECESSITY. The joy and peace 
in believing, are better than the unhallowed gratifica- 
tion of our speculative propensities, where the im- 
agination is permitted to revel in soarings beyond 
the bounds of right and reason. If the reader has 
been en rapport with me through this history, he will 
admit there was more yielding to strange voices, 
than trusting to the infallible monitor, who is never 
silent, though it may be overruled by impious in- 
fluences. 

Were I to retrace my steps with you, dear reader, 
I could show you that my own wilful imagination 
made links of mysterious association, where none 
had existed in reality; and, by continual apprehen- 
sion of evil, insensibly aided in working out the fulfil- 
ment of its own forebodings I 


333 


334 


STRIFE. 


But the past must return to me no more. Re- 
pentance has shut it out, and keeps the door. The 
present is full of peace. Paul is a marvel of cheer- 
fulness and content in any of our numerous homes : 
In Italy, at Lorraine, at Mahren or Immergrlin. 

Amelia loves the old shadowy home of Leon’s 
childhood, and thinks her little one, almost her idol^ 
is happier here. Sometimes we travel off and leave 
her with Doctor and Madame and Ethel, and old 
Lavinia stands by her favorite, while Nannine fol- 
lows the fortunes of hers. A certain Prussian officer 
is a frequent guest at Mahren — Ethel can tell all 
about it. 

A little hand tugged at my arm, a moment ago 
— fortunately for you, perhaps, dear reader. I laid 
down my pen, and took the little beauty up in my 
lap. 

“ I thought so ! ” exclaimed a green-eyed monster. 

“ What is baby’s name ? ” I asked. 

“ Leoni Minnette Amelia de Stalberg ! ” was the 
long answer from the short person. 

Paul laughed at the grave manner of the answer, 
and said, “ If your ladyship will be so condescending, 
tell your devoted uncle which name you like best.” 

“ Leoni ; it was my papa’s name,” was the unex- 
pected and prompt reply. 

” Amelia, you will smother that child,” said Paul. 
‘‘ I wish also that you should understand you are 
welcome to her, and I would n’t for the world that 
she belonged to Minnette.” 

“ Paul, how can you ? ” and the infant was in 


STRIFE. 335 

greater danger than before of being smothered by 
its overwhelmed parent. 

“Where would I be, I should like to know, if 
Minnette bestowed that much of her heart — and 
she would be sure to — on a third party ? “ 

“ How much do I love Leoni — and what is uncle 
jealous of? ” Amelia laughingly asked the child. 

“ The concentrated affection of two lionesses for 
their cub,” Paul replied, and rushed away from the 
menacing sister, niece, and wife. 

Sunshine is all about us. Clouds have their days ; 
but we take them for what they are^ and dream of 
nothing worse. Do likewise, dear reader, and oblige 
yours truly, 

Minnette 


THE END. 






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